


Complete as a Human Being

by LollipopCop



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Crying, Eventual Happy Ending, First Kiss, First Time, Jealous John, John-centric, Johnlock Roulette, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Post-Season/Series 04, Self-Loathing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-05-01 12:59:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 41,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14521113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LollipopCop/pseuds/LollipopCop
Summary: One week after Sherlock's birthday, Irene Adler is back in their lives, living at Baker Street and bringing up old wounds from the past while aggravating new ones.John is not pleased.





	1. Her Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John visits Baker Street to find a surprise sitting in his chair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seems like Irene brings out John's jealousy and repressed feelings the most, so I wanted to see what it would be like for her to come back after everything that happened in s4.

John rubbed his eyes, but the weariness pulling down his eyelids remained. He couldn’t remember the last time he got a full night’s sleep. First his mind was plagued by images of Mary, and now he couldn’t stop thinking about Sherlock. There was a time in his life when that brought a smile to his face, albeit wistful. Not anymore.

It was a week after Sherlock’s birthday, and things were still not close to okay. John thought that was to be expected, considering the emotional turmoil they both went through (and the physical one he put Sherlock through--no, don’t think of that), but he wanted this period of misery to end. He hated this. He hated his life. Sherlock was talking to him again, sure, but were they really friends anymore? John had blamed him for something that wasn’t his fault, completely pushed him out of his life, wrote him a horrible note, one which he wished he could erase from his memory, and he hurt him terribly. He acted like a complete monster. He apologized for his actions last week, when they stopped back at the flat after they had gone out for cake.

_“W-what I did to you. That was--”_

_“It’s okay.”_

_“No, it’s not! It's not okay!”_

They had a long, honestly much-needed conversation. John apologized until his mouth was dry from speech, and his knees were weak from the ache in his stomach. Sherlock accepted his apology, but insisted that he understood. Still, John tried to make it as clear as possible that Sherlock didn’t deserve an ounce of that, and he would never do it again.

Sherlock had gently taken him by the shoulders, and looked him straight in the eyes. “I want to move on,” he had said softly, “from everything. Can we do that?”

John couldn’t deny him. He agreed that the subject was finished, no matter how often the image of Sherlock’s glassy, desperate eyes looking up at him from the morgue floor haunted him. If Sherlock wanted to move on, if it was best for him, then John would do it. He may have acted like a complete and utter twat, but he would still gladly, readily do anything for Sherlock, even take a bullet. He didn’t want to put Sherlock through anymore pain, so he would stay silent.

John swallowed hard. There was a deep, long-suppressed ache in his chest when he thought about what Sherlock really meant to him, but that was out of the question. Their friendship was barely afloat, and there was no way they would be anything more. Aside from everything else, John didn’t deserve Sherlock’s affection.

All of these thoughts swirled endlessly in his head, keeping him up almost every night since January 6th, replacing his visions of Mary. He was exhausted, angry, struggling not to fall back into despair. He wasn’t well now, but better than he was a week ago, and he had to stay that way. For himself. For Rosie. For Sherlock.

John had to do better. He couldn’t change how he acted last week, or over the past few months--or maybe over the past year, since Sherlock got off the plane--but he could be the man he had to be. It was going to be hard, but he had no other choice. He had to be a better friend, and a better father. He was disgusted with himself for that, too. He passed his baby, his little girl, around like a bloody football to anyone willing to take her. It was wrong. Yet again, an innocent person was forced to deal with his inability to cope with his shitty life. He was glad she was too young to remember any of this.

In any case, John felt like he had done so much wrong that he didn’t know how to make any of it right. With Rosie, he was less worried about turning things around. He was going to be there for her and stop dropping her off at the homes of everyone he knew. He was a father now, god damn it, and he was determined to care for her. His Rosie, not _Rosamund_ . He never wanted to use her full name. He didn’t want to think about that woman anymore, or exactly how he felt about her. He needed a _break_ from thinking about Mary. He forced the image of her smug, smiling face from his mind.

With a heavy sigh, John looked at Rosie, who was waking up from her nap, lying on the living room floor on her stomach atop the warm, thick blanket Mrs. Hudson knitted for her.

John gently picked her up. “Hey,” he whispered. “You hungry?”

She rubbed an eye with a chubby fist.

John set Rosie in her height chair, and put a handful of dry cereal in front of her. He smiled a little when she started feeding herself. She was getting big. But, his mind wasn’t solely focused on her. The itch to see Sherlock grew. There were so many problems, too many to count, but they would never get through them if they were apart. The last time he left Sherlock, he fell back into the throes of addiction. John shuddered. _Don’t think about it, don’t think about it._

“How ‘bout we go see Sherlock after you’re done?” he asked her, watching her stuff another small piece of dry cereal into her mouth. “He sent me a text yesterday saying he wants to see you.” He paused. “I suppose I don’t have to justify this to you, do I?” He thought seeing Sherlock would be good for Rosie, too. She had been shoved from person to person so much that John wanted her to have some stability, get to know the same handful of faces better.

When she was finished eating, John got Rosie into her pink coat, shushing her as she fussed a bit, and got her nappy bag ready. “Sherlock will be happy to see you. You like him, yeah?” He chuckled. “You like tugging that ridiculous mop of his. I’m surprised he lets you do it. I’ve never touched his hair.” John paused, one of her stuffed toys in his hands. Was he really comparing his relationship with Sherlock to that of a baby’s? What the fuck was wrong with him? He shook his head and stuffed the pink elephant into the bag. “C’mon, love. Let’s go.”

* * *

John entered 221B with Rosie strapped to his chest, nappy bag thrown over one shoulder. He was nervous, and was acutely aware that there was a time when he felt nothing but comfort around Sherlock, but they would work back up to that, wouldn’t they? One day. He hoped. They would only get back to that point by spending time together.

Rosie babbled a bit, and John wondered if she recognized the stairs leading up to the flat, trying to recall long-term memory abilities for babies her age. He pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head, her golden hair soft as silk against his mouth. He thought about popping in to Mrs. Hudson’s for a minute, but he knew once she saw Rosie, she wouldn’t give her up for a good twenty minutes, and he just wanted to see Sherlock for now.

John opened the door to the flat.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair, clad in one of his suits with a dark blue shirt underneath, although his old dressing gown was thrown over his clothes. He was clean-shaven, now, and had showered recently, a far cry from how he looked last week. And yet, he wasn’t well. His cheekbones were still poking out too sharply, his cheeks too sunken, the cut next to his eyebrow fading, but visible. His skin was still too pale, as well, with dark circles under his eyes. He looked like he was recovering from a nasty cold. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, but not in pleasant surprise, it seemed. He looked uncomfortable, a frown troubling his thin face. John only registered this for a couple seconds before he realized someone was sitting in _his_ chair.

He saw the top of someone’s head, their hair dark and done up in a bun. The head turned, and bright red lips were smiling at him.

John’s heart stopped, an unpleasant shiver rippling through his skin, giving him gooseflesh. _No._ An ache crawled into his stomach, and it was as if all hope at spending time with Sherlock flew out of his chest, leaving him empty.

“Dr. Watson,” she purred, light eyes twinkling with amusement.

 _Irene fucking Adler._ Why was she here? _How_ was she here? Why the fuck was she sitting in his bloody fucking chair? It felt like his brain came to an absolute halt, and he was glued to the floor. It was like a brick dropped into his stomach. Rosie kicking her feet threw him back to reality, and he sucked in a breath.

“What are you doing here?” he found himself asking, manners nonexistent.

Irene laughed at him. “Well, it’s nice to see you, too. But, who is _this_?” she beamed at Rosie.

John took a few steps forward, clearing his throat, grateful for Rosie’s warm, solid presence against his chest. “This is my daughter,” he said woodenly. The last time he saw Irene Adler, it was before the Fall. Before he got married. Before Sherlock got shot. Before he became a father. Before the Culverton Smith case-- _Don’t think about it. He told you to move on._ How did so much change? How did the years pass by so quickly? He felt strangely self-conscious in front of her, and of his life choices.

“ _You’r_ e a father?” she asked incredulously. Her smile fell. “Wait, you’re not living here?”

“No,” Sherlock said softly, speaking for the first time. His eyes lowered to the floor.

The way he said it made John’s heart twist. He sounded upset. _Was_ he upset about that?

Rosie smiled, completely oblivious. “Shuh,” she reached her arms out to Sherlock.

Irene looked surprised, her calm and superior aura broken. She regained her composure. “Well, that’s not important right now. Back to this little one,” she turned in the chair, brining her knees up and feet on the cushion. She was dressed in a slim black dress, neckline down so low John was surprised her breasts weren’t popping out completely. She was barefoot, with her matching black high heels on the floor next to John’s chair. He didn’t want her bare feet on his chair. She looked exactly the same as she did almost five years ago, not a line on her face, which made a bubble of resentment form in his stomach.

“She seems to like you,” she flashed a grin at Sherlock. “How sweet. What’s her name?” she asked.

“Rosie,” John replied.

Sherlock was eerily quiet.

“May I see her?”

John instantly felt protective. “Why?”

“I like children,” she shrugged. “If it weren’t for my line of work, I’d have one.”

John wasn’t sure if he believed her, but more importantly, he really didn’t know if he wanted Rosie in this woman’s arms. “Why are you even here?” he asked again.

She sighed, although a smirk remained across her painted lips. “I need a safe place to stay until I leave Europe permanently. My sources informed me my enemies got wind of my location. I asked Sherlock for help, and he offered his flat. So,” she held out her hands, “here I am.”

A flutter of hope kicked John’s chest. “Leave Europe for good?”

“I don’t think anyone will find me in the midwestern United States,” she winked.

There was no reason to wink. God, she was obnoxious. “I still don’t understand. Where were you all this time?”

“That’s a secret,” she said easily, “but I can tell you it was in Eastern Europe.”

“So why do you need to be here?” John asked in annoyance.

“Her enemies are expecting her to board a plane,” Sherlock spoke for the first time in awhile, looking up. “It would have been dangerous for her to board a plane in--in the country she was in,” he caught himself, “and I’d told her long ago that if she ever needed anything, I would assist her.”

John’s stomach twisted into a tight knot.

Sherlock cleared his throat lightly. “Thus, she traveled across Europe and I’m giving her refuge here until I can give her a fake, convincing identity, one which will not give any indication to who she really is. This flat is safer than any hotel. Mycroft doesn’t know she’s here, but I’ve lied and told him I need a fake identity for a case.”

“And he believes you?” John asked.

He grinned faintly. “I can be an excellent liar, especially over the phone. Once she’s set, she’ll be on a plane to Oklahoma.”

“Exactly,” Irene nodded. “Does that satisfy you?” she asked, her voice turning needlessly low.

John still had some questions, but his mind was spinning, and holding on to the part about her permanently leaving the continent. “Erm, yes.”

“Good. Now, can I see Rosie?”

John sighed, and thought there wasn’t much of a justification to say “no.” He didn’t think she would hurt Rosie at all; it was out of pure pettiness. John held Rosie with one arm and unstrapped her.

Irene held out her arms and took hold of Rosie, grinning. “Well, look at _you_.”

Rosie made a confused sound.

John set the nappy bag down and removed the baby carrier from his chest, setting it on the coffee table. He didn’t like any of this, but especially how quiet Sherlock was.

“How old is she?” Irene asked.

“Almost a year,” John said. “Her birthday is in two weeks.”

She made an interested sound, but didn’t say anything to that.

John felt like she was silently judging him, but maybe he was paranoid. He couldn’t help it.

“She’s a darling little girl,” she commented, standing Rosie up on her lap, hands underneath her armpits.

“Thank you,” John said, feeling odd that she said something genuinely nice.

“She has your nose and your eyes, but the rest must be from her mother. Where is her mother, anyway?”

It was like the world went silent, all noise from outside disappearing, and ice ran through John’s veins. There was something about the thought of discussing his failed marriage with Irene Adler, of all people, which made him want to flee from the flat. She had been able to see right through John.

_We’re not a couple._

_Yes, you are._

“Irene,” Sherlock glared at her, a distinct warning in his tone, somehow looking paler than he had a moment ago.

To her credit, Irene looked confused. She turned to John, and her eyes lasered in on his wedding band. But her light eyes ran over his face, too similar to Sherlock’s deduction process for comfort, and she had the grace to sink back in the chair. “Forget I said anything, Dr. Watson.”

“Can I have my daughter back?” John asked through gritted teeth, his left hand clenching into a fist, the ring feeling heavy on his finger.

“Of course,” she held out Rosie.

John took her, instantly holding her to his chest. She started to fuss, and John bounced her up and down. How was it possible that Irene managed to make him feel thoroughly exposed? _It’s her job, you moron._ He felt small. “You know what? This is a bad time. We’ll just come back an--”

“No,” Sherlock stood up abruptly, but then stumbled, clutching one of the arms of his chair, fingers clawing into the leather. He gritted his teeth, visibly holding back a hiss of pain.

John stepped forward, concern filling his chest.

Irene stared up at Sherlock, eyes interested. “I thought there was something different about you,” she drawled. “You don’t look so good, Sherlock,” she said without sympathy, only faint intrigue.

More ice filled John’s blood, and he hugged Rosie tighter. His heart started to pound.

“What is it?” she asked. “Are you injured?”

It was because of him. _Look at him,_ John’s mind spat. _This is you. You did this._

“No, I’m fine,” Sherlock denied with a grumble, standing upright. He wasn’t looking at her. “Would you give me and John a moment of privacy?”

Irene sighed in annoyance. “Fine. I can tell you need some alone time,” she said with far more innuendo than was necessary (or appropriate, for that matter--there was a baby in the room!). “I need to finish unpacking my clothes, anyway.” She got up, grabbed her heels off the ground, sauntered out of the room, and went up the stairs.

She was staying in John’s old room. Seriously, was anything sacred anymore? Actually, wait. She’d been surprised to hear John didn’t live here, but was staying in his room? That didn’t make sense.

They heard the door click shut.

Sherlock sighed, shoulders slumping, walking so he was standing directly in front of John. From here, the cut by his eyebrow was more visible, along with the fatigue in his eyes. He put his hands in the pockets of his dressing gown. “I apologize for that, John. I realize how uncomfortable her question must have been for you.”

John shifted Rosie so her bum was against his left arm, and his right hand was steady on her back. That wasn’t the only thing that made him uncomfortable. Her whole bloody presence made his skin crawl. She made him feel inferior. He bit the inside of his cheek, not knowing what to say. While spending a moment in thought, he remembered how Sherlock stumbled when he tried to get out of his chair.

“Sherlock…”

He took a deep breath. “Don’t. I know what you’re thinking. My body may need time to heal, but my mind does not. I told you I want to move on. Please. I know how you feel about it, and you don’t need to say anything more.”

John still felt sick about it, but nodded. _Do it for his sake, not yours._ “Okay,” he muttered. “Sorry for bringing it up.” He changed the subject. “Look, it’s nice of you to help her, but I think it’d be better if Rosie and I stayed out of your hair until she’s gone.”

His face fell. “But I don’t know when that will be. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable when you come here, but I also don’t want you to feel as if you’re unwelcome due to her.”

John shook his head. “That woman takes up every room she’s in. I--Rosie and I--will just get in the way.”

“That’s absurd,” a crinkle appeared on top of the bridge of Sherlock’s nose. “You two will do no such thing. I offered her a place to stay, John, but that doesn’t mean I’m here for her entertainment.”

He swallowed. Just last week, Sherlock admitted to texting her back sometimes, and he seemed embarrassed by the admission, or at least tried to change the subject when John heard the text alert. Sherlock wasn’t truthful about his relationship and interactions with her (he’d never told John she was alive!), so John could easily imagine him lying. They were living under the same roof, and she would certainly try to make a move on Sherlock. What would stop him from reciprocating? He should have been happy for Sherlock.

“I don’t see why you wouldn’t be,” John said with a grim smile. “She’s here, right in your flat, and she likes you. What’s the problem?” He almost spat the question, and he told himself to calm down. Getting angry was not good, especially with Rosie in his arms.

Sherlock’s eyes closed, the beginning of a snarl pulling down the corner of his mouth. “John.”

John swallowed hard. He had told Sherlock to go after her, that he shouldn’t miss his chance. She was here. This was the perfect opportunity. Sherlock liked her, and he would just have to be a supportive friend, he tried to reason with himself, although it felt like led was in his chest. “Are you really going to pass up this chance, too?”

Sherlock opened his eyes, irritation clear. “Enough of this, it’s not important right now. Anyway,” he said pointedly, “we were talking about you and Rosie. Last week, did we not agree to see each other more? For Rosie,” he added.

Or, did John only imagine that he added that phrase? Wishful thinking never did him good. “We did,” he said, giving up on the conversation about Sherlock’s love life for now (a selfish part of him was relieved).

Sherlock sighed a little, his annoyance fading. “Then I don’t see why we should change our plans because of the Woman.”

 _Because I can’t stand to see you with her._ No, Sherlock was making an effort, which meant John had to, as well. “Okay,” he agreed. “Okay. As long as it’s no trouble.”

Sherlock just mutely shook his head.

Rosie held out her hands again. “Shuh,” she whined.

Sherlock took Rosie into his arms. “Sorry, did I ignore you?” he asked lightly.

She smiled and grabbed his nose.

John smiled. Rosie was already small, but she looked tiny in Sherlock’s arms, especially with his massive hands holding her. It occurred to him he hadn’t felt this fondness when he watched Mary hold Rosie, and stopped the train of thought dead in its tracks. “So,” he sighed, “I guess we’ll have to, um--” _try to salvage our friendship_ “--spend more time here with Irene. Should be interesting,” he joked.

Sherlock didn’t smile, looking down at Rosie as she put a clumsy hand into his hair. He said nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think? I loved feedback and take it very seriously. I hope it's cool, because I have some stuff in mind for future chapters.  
> Just a side note: I made John and Sherlock agree to move past the morgue scene from TLD because I wrote about it in all of my other post-s4 stories, and honestly, *I* want to move on. But, I know this is an issue for a lot of people, so if you want to see my address that scene more in-depth, you can check out my other fics :)


	2. An Uncomfortable New Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John isn't adjusting to Irene's presence very well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, thanks for over 100 kudos for only one chapter! I'm glad you like it so far :)

To John’s relief, Irene did not come back downstairs for the remainder of his visit. Talking to her for a few minutes was enough to drain him for a week. He sat down in his armchair, internally grumbling that she had been sitting in it a few minutes earlier. Sherlock sat down across from him with Rosie in his arms, and it almost felt normal for a second. He settled back, allowing himself to relax a little as Sherlock talked to Rosie.

“We must work on your enunciation,” he said to her. “It’s Sher-lock. Sherlock.”

“Shuh,” she said.

Sherlock sighed. “Not exactly. Let’s try again.”

It really did feel normal for a second, until John noticed something on Sherlock’s jaw line. It was on the right side of his face, and looked like a small, red smudge. It was small enough that he didn’t notice it until now, when he was staring at Sherlock and not distracted by Irene. “Hey, Sherlock, what’s on your jaw?”

He looked up. “My jaw?”

“Yeah, it’s right here,” John pointed to the spot on his own jaw.

Sherlock mirrored his actions and with his free hand, placed his forefinger on his jaw. It was a small shift, but his mouth tightened ever so slightly. “Oh, that.” He held Rosie with both hands again. “It’s a nuisance.”

“A nuisance?” John asked, raising his eyebrow. “It’s not a bruise, is it?”

“No, no,” Sherlock said, but offered nothing further. “Anyway, Rosie--”

“No, what is it?” John asked. He didn’t know why Sherlock wasn’t answering his question.

Sherlock stared into Rosie’s eyes, not his. “She gave me a thank-you kiss for letting her stay here.”

A ton of bricks dropped into John’s stomach. It was lipstick. His hand shook with the effort it took not to curl around and claw into the arm of his chair. “Oh,” he choked out. “That’s--good. How kind.” It sounded like someone had punched John in the gut. He cleared his throat, making his voice steadier. “That was good for you, right?”

“Enunciation, Rosie,” Sherlock completely ignored John. “She _r_ lock. There’s an ‘r’ in there.”

Rosie didn’t say any word, but a small, “Uhh.”

John bit the inside of his cheek hard. He could get a hint. Sherlock didn’t want to talk about it. Fine. Good. But why not? Didn’t he want this? Didn’t _John_ tell him to pursue her, and should be happy for him? He slowly released a breath, letting go of the inside of his cheek.

“That’s…”

Sherlock looked like he was bracing himself.

“That’s not how child language acquisition works, Sherlock.”

Sherlock visibly relaxed. “I know what I’m doing; I’m modeling correct pronunciation.”

“Yeah. Okay.” He wished the chair would swallow him up.

John stayed at Baker Street for roughly an hour and a half, but the cloud of Irene’s presence loomed over them. Things were uncomfortable as they were, and she made everything worse. John didn’t even know what to say to Sherlock that wouldn’t end with him asking how he felt about Irene being here, or the small kiss. Questions about how Sherlock really felt about her and the situation were at the tip of his tongue the entire time, but talking about her was a touchy subject even back then--back before everything went wrong when Moriarty ruined their lives. With the way their relationship was now, voicing his questions would only anger Sherlock. John reluctantly kept his mouth shut about it, but he wasn’t sure what else to say.

Rosie, thankfully, removed some of the awkwardness from the air. She was oblivious to the tension in the flat, and was twirling Sherlock’s hair as he held her.

“You can tell her to stop if that hurts,” John told him.

“It doesn’t,” Sherlock said.

John couldn’t tell if he was lying. He was grateful that Sherlock genuinely seemed to like Rosie, because that had been something which worried him immensely. He didn’t know what that said about him, that he was worrying about how his best friend would react to his child being born than the actual birth of his daughter. _It means you’re a selfish prick._ John dismissed the thought and made the expression on his face as blank as possible. He didn’t feel like getting deduced by Sherlock. In any case, Sherlock didn’t hate Rosie, and John would forever be glad for that, although he can’t say her birth was exactly great for their relationship, either. He knew it wasn’t her fault, though. She needed his care, and that required John to be away from Sherlock, and that was just that. If anything, her birth only exposed how fragile their relationship truly was.

“All right over there?” Sherlock asked, a forced lightness to his voice.

Damn. So much for not getting lost in thought. “Just...thinking,” he said lamely. “Nothing important.”

Sherlock opened his mouth for a moment, a curious furrow to his brow, but he shut it and didn’t say anything.

John’s hand tightened around the arm of his chair, gripping it. He had come to realize the only thing worse than being dissected by Sherlock’s deductions was being suffocated by his silence. They didn’t say much to each other after that. Sherlock chose to focus on Rosie instead of him--whether that was because he didn’t know what to say, or he genuinely didn’t want to talk to him anymore, John didn’t know.

Sherlock chatted with Rosie for a bit about how she would need to develop at a faster rate than normal babies in order for her to become as smart as he was.

“She’s not going to be a mini you,” John commented. He meant for it to have been a joke, but Sherlock seemed to frown a little at that. John felt like he was just screwing things up today. It was like he didn’t even know how to talk to Sherlock anymore. What kind of friendship did they have if they could barely hold a conversation?

Not long after that comment, Rosie started to fuss a little, so John sighed and said, “Well, I think it’s time for her to nap, so I’ll take her home.” He stood up, stretching.

Sherlock’s expression was unreadable. “Yes, she does seem tired,” he said, monotone.

John walked towards the coffee table and picked up the baby carrier, strapping it to his chest. He then walked over to Sherlock and held out his arms.

Sherlock stared up at him for a moment, not moving at all.

John stared back, confused.

But then the moment passed, and Sherlock handed Rosie over.

John shushed Rosie as she whined a little, carefully putting her in the carrier.

“Da,” she rubbed her eye and kicked one of her feet outwards, narrowly missing Sherlock’s nose.

“Daddy’s going to bring you home soon, but don’t kick Sherlock in the face in the process.” He realized he used a bit of baby talk in front of Sherlock, and felt a little odd about it.

Sherlock didn’t seem to care, though, and smiled ever so slightly. “I’m sure her foot wouldn’t have done much damage.”

“You’d be surprised; try changing her as she cries and kicks her feet.”

He scrunched up his nose. “No, thank you.”

They laughed a little.

“Have you ever changed a nappy in your life?” John asked.

“No,” Sherlock said easily, “and I intend to keep it that way.” He crossed his legs. “Let me be plain, John. I’d lay down my life for your child, but I won’t change her.”

John let out a small laugh, but his mind was stuck on _“I’d lay down my life for your child.”_ His smile faded, and he cleared his throat. He knew Sherlock wasn’t being hyperbolic, and he really would sacrifice himself for Rosie. _Or you, for that matter._

“John, what’s wrong?” Sherlock asked.

Damn it. Thinking about how much Sherlock was willing to do for him did not bring warmth to his chest, but a sickening guilt to his stomach, and it must have shown on his face. “Nothing, nothing. Well, I’ll, erm, I’ll see you later. I’ll be in touch.”

Sherlock sat back in his chair. “All right. You’re always welcome here--the two of you.”

John grabbed her nappy bag and slung it over his shoulder, trying to appear casual. “Yeah, yeah, right. Thanks.” He clenched his jaw, thinking about Irene and Sherlock alone in the flat together. “Have fun with...her.”

Sherlock’s mouth tightened a little, and he looked down. “Well, I’m not sure ‘fun’ is the right word to describe it. Interesting, maybe.”

Interesting. He was always interested in her. Always more interested in her than him. _Stop it, you insecure prick._ “Ok. Say goodbye, Rosie,” he grabbed her hand and made her wave.

Rosie got the idea and waved her hand. “Shuh,” she said.

“Goodbye, Rosie,” he smiled faintly.

John nodded curtly. “Bye.” He left with Rosie, and god damn it, even saying goodbye felt uncomfortable. This entire visit was just one tension-filled moment after another, although it was obviously worse when Irene was downstairs with them.

“And she’s there with him,” John muttered to Rosie as they walked into the door. “He said it would be ‘interesting’ to live with her. What does that mean?”

Rosie babbled.

“It probably means another fucking thank-you kiss,” he grumbled. “Oops, sorry, Rosie. Well, you don’t understand swears. Anyway, at least he was at ease with you,” he said. “If it weren’t for you, I don’t think we would have lasted more than five minutes on our own. Well, that’s not the reason why I brought you--why am I justifying all this to you?”

Rosie didn’t say anything.

John huffed a breath out of his nose. He walked them into his room, and he lifted Rosie out of the carrier. He really should have put her down for a nap in her room, but he was feeling strikingly lonely after leaving 221B. He needed to be around someone right now. He set her down in the middle of the bed.

“I didn’t think I’d feel worse after visiting Sherlock,” he sighed, taking off the carrier and putting the nappy bag on the floor. “But I didn’t expect to see _her_ , either,” he said through gritted teeth. He kicked off his shoes and tugged off his jacket. He left everything on the floor, not feeling motivated to put anything together at the moment. He got on the bed and gathered Rosie into his arms, holding her to his chest. He pulled down the hood of her bunny onesie, and caressed her golden hair. “Things were supposed to start to get better,” he said quietly.

Rosie, of course, didn’t respond. Her eyelids were already drooping, and the warmth of her was comfort enough. At least a little bit.

But still, John sighed heavily. “Things were supposed to get better,” he repeated in a whisper. The silence of the room answered him. The sun had gone in, and a grey light was coming into the bedroom. It wasn’t fair. Why did she have to be there now, of all times? Irene had put a strain on his relationship with Sherlock back during their high point; he supposed, upon reflection, that it only made sense for her to return when they were at their lowest. _Of fucking course._ He acknowledged that he was probably being more bitter than warranted, and yeah, maybe he was sitting here feeling sorry for himself, but fuck it. Just fuck it. He was fed up. It felt like the universe had been against him for the past few years. He felt immense disappointment in his chest. He gently rested his cheek atop Rosie’s head. He didn’t expect everything to go back to normal today, but he didn’t expect his afternoon to be so shitty, either.

John looked out the window. He was glad Rosie was here. She was the only thing keeping him from drinking right now.

* * *

That night, John woke up in a sweat. His brain was fuzzy, unpleasantly so. It felt like he had just been in the middle of an intense dream, but only vague images lingered in his mind. He was thinking of Irene and Sherlock, so he must have dreamt of them. He rubbed his eyes. He tried to think, struggling to remember. An image of Irene smiling and tracing Sherlock’s bottom lip with her finger presented itself, her red nail polish standing out brightly through the haze of the fading dream. John shook his head with a grimace, willing the image away. Everything else was blurry, but that was enough to put a knot in his stomach. He rolled over with a grumble. The neon numbers shining from the clock on the bedside table caught his eye. It was 4:03. Was Sherlock still awake? John hoped not. His body was still recovering from being addicted to god-knows what, and he needed rest. John feared that Mycroft was going to call him one of these days with news that Sherlock relapsed. He seemed to be doing well, though, all things considered. Without any cases to work on, he was probably at least relaxing. But... _Is she in his bed? Has she given him another kiss? Does he want another kiss?_

“Stop thinking that, you cock,” John muttered to himself. It was hard for his brain not to go there, though. He remembered that day, when they came home and she was just casually sleeping in Sherlock’s bed, as if she owned the fucking place. John also remembered how Sherlock didn’t make any moves to kick her out…

John closed his eyes, trying to go back to sleep, but his head hurt. He had only spoken to her for a few minutes, and she had only placed a small kiss on Sherlock’s jaw, and she was bothering him this much. He was pathetic.

* * *

John didn’t contact Sherlock for a week and a half. He wanted to text Sherlock multiple times, but he didn’t know how to start a conversation casually. They were never really the type of friends to send a “Hey, how are you?” Most of their text messages had to do with cases, and when they lived together, they would just send each other quick messages pertaining to the state of the flat, or the rent, or the experiments all over the kitchen. The bulk of their conversations was always in person. Mary used to get them to talk more when she put them all in a group chat years ago, but John didn’t want to think about her.

Once, John typed out, “So how’s it living with her so far?” He thought that wording would sound casual enough, but this was Sherlock Holmes; he would instantly see through John’s feigned nonchalance. He deleted the message in frustration, stuffing his phone back in his pocket.

“Texting shouldn’t be this hard,” he said to Rosie.

She chewed on the corner of one of her baby books.

But for a moment, John thought that he didn’t have to be the one to initiate a conversation, after all. Eleven days after he went to Baker Street, his phone vibrated. (Was that how lonely he was, that no one else texted him within that time? No use in thinking about that now.) He thought it was Sherlock, but it was an unknown number.

**Why don’t you come by?**

John stared at his phone, brow crinkled in confusion. Who are you? he typed back.

A reply came seven minutes later. **I know your brain isn’t like Sherlock’s, but come on now. You can’t be that obtuse.**

His fingers tightened around his phone. Irene???

**;)**

How did you get my number?

**I looked in Sherlock’s phone.**

Well. That was honest. Why are you texting me? He glared at his phone screen. Honestly, why did she think he wanted to hear from her?

**I told you: you should come by.**

Why?

**Do you not want to?**

He did, but not with her there. He was tempted to say that to her, but held himself back. There was no need to be hostile. She wasn’t doing anything wrong at the moment. Why do *you* want me to?

**Touché.**

John didn’t really know how to respond to that, so he put his phone down for a moment to think. Seriously, why did she want him to stop by? It wasn’t like they ever got along much, and wouldn’t she want to spend more time alone with Sherlock? He was about to text her and ask what she was doing in the flat for the past eleven days, but stopped himself. She would probably tell Sherlock he asked that. His phone vibrated again.

**Well? When should I tell Sherlock you’re coming over?**

John narrowed his eyes at his phone. He got the sense she was playing him somehow, that she had some ulterior motive for inviting him over, but he didn’t know what it was. But, on the other hand, if he said he wasn’t going to come over, then she would surely tell Sherlock, and that would probably make him feel bad. After how awful of a friend John had been recently, the last thing Sherlock needed to hear was that he didn’t want to see him.

A heavy weight descended upon his chest.

_“Tell Sherlock I want anyone but him. Anyone!”_

The memory made him sick to his stomach. Molly reported back that she told Sherlock he said exactly that when she gave him his letter--oh god, that fucking letter he wrote…

What was he doing? Why was he letting the Woman come between them? Didn’t he want to do better? John didn’t know what she was playing at, but he wasn’t going to let her keep them apart. Sherlock was doing something nice by letting her stay with him, and John had no right to isolate him for that. Besides, if Sherlock was interested in her--he couldn’t fault him for that, either, as much as it pained him. Friends were supposed to support each other.

Not tonight, because I’m going to give Rosie her bath and put her to bed soon. Tomorrow. I’ll be there.

**I’ll tell Sherlock to expect you, Dr Watson.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John is a jealous mess, and his internal screaming will only increase as the story goes on :) But don't worry, he'll get his shit together eventually.


	3. A Tense Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At Irene's urging, John pays a visit to Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos, guys! I really don't know how long this will be, but it's fun.

John felt determined, but a little bit ridiculous. He looked at his reflection in the mirror of the cab, staring into his own eyes. He was heading over to the flat after dropping Rosie off at her new daycare. As much as he wanted to spend time with her, he had read that some structure would be good to add to her day. Besides, it would be nice for her to be around children and not just him all of the time.

The most important reason why he was doing this, though, was that he was going to have to go back to work soon. John didn’t have enough money to provide for the two of them indefinitely, as proven by his attempt to pay his bills the night before. He was going to run out of savings soon. John was hesitant to tell Sherlock about this. He knew that working would mean spending less time with Sherlock. He didn’t want that, but he didn’t have much of a choice. They had promised to see each other more, though, and John desperately wanted to rebuild their friendship. He feared that if he told Sherlock about this, he would immediately make the connection that they wouldn’t be able to see each other often and be disappointed. Maybe John wouldn’t tell him today.

John frowned at his reflection. Before he left, he put gel into his hair, swooping it off to the side more than usual, and put on a white dress shirt, tucked into his belt. He didn’t know why he felt the need to put a little extra effort into his appearance today. Okay, that was a lie. Maybe it was a subconscious thing as he was actually getting dressed, but here in the back of the cab, the truth was right in front of him. He thought that, well, Irene was probably going to be looking great, so why couldn’t he try to spruce himself up a bit? He had the right to look nice.

He frowned deeper at his reflection. _Well, nicer than normal,_ he amended. He remembered what Irene looked like in her dress a week and a half ago, and he sighed heavily and shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. What was he thinking, thinking he could waltz in their and compete with her? Why was he even thinking of competing with her, anyway? He let go of the bridge of his nose and put his hand on his lap. Of course he knew the answer to that question. He was stupid to ask himself that question. But he was an absolute tit for thinking that he could somehow tinker his appearance to compete with Irene bloody Adler. More importantly, it was futile to compete for Sherlock’s attention when she was around. He briefly wondered when he became so juvenile, but he remembered that Irene made him feel this way years ago, too. There was something about her that brought out the worst in him.

He bit his lip, looking down at the wedding ring he wanted to forget, but was hesitant to bin for reasons he couldn’t explain. Well. There was certainly someone else in his life who made him a worse person than Irene. He didn’t want to think about her now.

The cab pulled up to Baker Street. Great, he hadn’t even arrived yet, and he was already in a sour mood. He did that to himself, though, and Sherlock didn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of his bitterness, so he would hide it--at least as much as he could. He paid the cabbie and looked up as he got out of the car. For a second, he saw Sherlock at the window, but in a flash, he was gone. Odd.

John took a deep breath and opened the door. He walked right upstairs, not wasting any time, and saw Sherlock sitting in his chair, violin in his hands. He was dressed in one of his suits, no dressing gown this time. That combined with his combed hair and shaved face, this was the most presentable Sherlock looked since Mary’s death. It wasn’t just that he looked presentable; he looked more like himself. In the week and a half since they had last seen each other, it looked like some of the hollowness of his cheeks had softened out a bit, too. He looked _good_.

“John,” Sherlock plucked a string on his instrument. “There you are.”

“Here I am,” he said lamely. He was almost certain that he had seen Sherlock at the window not even forty seconds ago. Did he rush to his chair when he saw John coming? That was strange. “Um, how are you?” he asked, walking to his chair.

“I can’t complain,” he replied with a one-shouldered shrug. “Where’s Rosie?”

“Oh, she started her first day of daycare,” he sat in his chair. It was quiet in the rest of the flat. Were they alone?

“Daycare?” Sherlock asked loudly, almost in alarm. “Why on earth is she in daycare?”

“Because she’s a little kid who needs to be around other little kids?” John raised his eyebrow. “She shouldn’t just be around me all day.”

“She wouldn’t, though,” Sherlock protested. “She’d be around me, too.”

“Well, not every day,” John said. Was Sherlock actually upset by this? “Besides, it’ll be good for her to get on a sort of schedule.”

“Hm, I suppose so,” Sherlock said. “She’d still learn more with me than at any insipid daycare.”

“True,” John smirked. “But she really should interact with other children.” He swallowed, still reluctant to talk about his inevitable employment. “So, um, where is she?”

“Who?” Sherlock asked casually.

John rolled his eyes. “The Woman, Sherlock.”

“Oh, her,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Upstairs.” He didn’t say anything more.

John bit the inside of his cheek. “Oh. Well. How is it, living with her? Nice?”

Sherlock was looking down at his violin. “Interesting.”

“How?” he asked without hesitation.

“She talks about interesting things,” he replied. “She’s told me about her, as she calls them, ‘glory days’ when she was able to swindle every one of her clients.”

“Charming,” John resisted rolling his eyes again. He didn’t find that interesting at all. She did work for Moriarty, after all.

Sherlock must have noticed his displeasure, because he looked up. “I said I found what she said ‘interesting.’ I don’t approve of her methods.”

“I’d hope you wouldn’t approve the methods of anyone who worked for Moriarty,” he said stiffly.

Sherlock visibly tensed.

“Sorry,” John muttered. Maybe he shouldn’t have said it, but he was able to trace the point where their lives went wrong to the Moriarty fiasco, and he couldn’t forgive anyone who ever aided him. He just couldn’t.

Sherlock shook his head. “Did Rosie cry when you dropped her off?”

He was changing the subject. John wanted to talk about Irene more, but he dropped it for now. “No, actually. I don’t think she quite knew that I was leaving her, but maybe she cried once I left. I hope not, though.”

“I just don’t understand why she needs to be sent to daycare now,” Sherlock eyed him, as if he knew there was another reason. “She’s not even one. Oh!” his eyes widened. “Her birthday is on Saturday.”

“Yeah, it is,” he smiled. “You remembered.”

“Of course I remembered. We should give her a cake.”

 _We._ “You’re enthusiastic,” he commented. “You’re usually not into birthdays. Although,” he smiled a little more, “you seemed pretty happy when Molly and I took you out for cake.”

“Well, yes,” his fingers fidgeted. “It was a nice event. I would like for Rosie to experience that, too.”

His heart thumped. “That’s...that’s--” _sweet_ “nice of you.”

There was a slight pink flush on his cheekbones. He looked down and inhaled through his mouth. “She should enjoy herself, is all.” He looked up suddenly. “That’s why I don’t understand why such a young child should be in daycare.”

Damn. He couldn’t get around this. “I’m planning on going back to work soon,” he said.

“When?” Sherlock asked quickly.

“Sometime soon, I don’t know. I don’t have concrete plans yet. I was out of work for a while because, you know,” he said awkwardly. He didn’t like talking about Mary with Sherlock. He cleared his throat, “So, erm, I have to open up my practice again. That’ll be a process, but it’s for the best.”

“Why are you going back to work, is it a matter of money?” Sherlock demanded. He looked at John. “Hm, no, it’s not just that. You need something to do during the day, yes?”

“Yeah,” John admitted easily. “I do need money to support myself and Rosie, and you know me,” he smiled lightly, “I go mad sitting around all day.”

“But you wouldn’t be,” Sherlock frowned, sitting up straighter in his chair. He sounded troubled. “You’ll be going on cases with me again.”

John paused. There was a nervousness in Sherlock’s voice. This was the response he wanted to avoid. “I’d like to, but I do need a job, Sherlock.” He really would like to, but it would be irresponsible of him to go running with Sherlock without any financial security for his child. He couldn’t just think of himself anymore. His days with Sherlock of carefree fun were over, and had been since Moriarty took the game too far.

Sherlock’s shoulders slumped. His lips tightened.

 _Shit._ “What’s wrong?” John asked. He knew damn well what was wrong.

His fingers drummed a jittery rhythm on the base of his violin. “Nothing. It’s only that I don’t see when we--when you’ll be able to come here with Rosie,” he said, his tone tense. “You’d drop Rosie off at daycare in the morning and go to work. You’d work all afternoon, then pick her up and spend the rest of the night with her. You’ll be too tired to come over here after work. With Rosie, that is.”

There was a tug at John’s heart. He couldn’t tell if Sherlock was upset because they wouldn’t be able to see each other as often, or because he wouldn’t be able to see Rosie as much. John hoped it was both. He hoped he wasn’t the only one who truly wanted to stay in this flat together as much as possible. “I can bring her over on the weekends,” he said, smiling a little. “You’ll still see her. I won’t work and she won’t have daycare then.”

Sherlock didn’t look happier. “I suppose,” he said woodenly.

“It’s just the new reality now,” he said in resignation. “I can’t provide for Rosie unless I work. I can’t work unless Rosie is being taken care of during the day.”

Sherlock’s mouth twisted to the side. “You can’t come on cases with me anymore.”

As selfish as it may have been, John felt a little bit of relief. Sherlock was going to miss him and not just Rosie. A small part of him was glad, but he was immediately reminded of what a terrible friend he’d been recently, and there was another tug at his heart. He was hurting Sherlock again. “We’ll still hang out, Sherlock,” he tried to say lightly. He licked his lips, feeling like they were on the brink of a serious conversation he wasn’t sure either of them was prepared for. “We--it’ll be fine. We’re still friends, yeah? We’ll still be friends when I’m working again.” He was babbling.

“Of course, I wasn’t worried our friendship would disintegrate,” he said flippantly with a weak smile. “Don’t be absurd, John.”

“Right,” he breathed. _Liar._ “I’m just saying. It’ll be fine. We’ll be here on Saturday, anyway. You were planning on having her here, right?”

“Obviously,” Sherlock mumbled. He reached down and picked up the bow that was leaning against the side of his chair. Then, he raised it to his violin and started to play.

Damn it. He was distressed.

 _“He’s more emotional, isn’t he?”_ Mrs. Hudson had said. “ _Unsolved case: shoot the wall.”_

 _Upset: play the violin,_ John thought. He rubbed his eyes. He wanted to tell Sherlock that he wanted to spend more time with him, too. But they didn’t do that--the whole talking bit. Wasn’t that their main problem? Shouldn’t he have been trying to fix that? He was supposed to actively work to make things better, but he was failing.

Sherlock’s eyes were closed as he played, but there was a small furrow to his brow.

John sighed, shifting and leaning on the right arm of his chair. “Sherlock.”

A door opened and shut from somewhere else in the flat, startling John. Wait. That sounded like it came from behind him.

Sherlock kept playing.

John whipped around, and the blood drained from his face. Irene was coming from Sherlock’s bedroom. John turned back around, staring at the floor, a ball of anxiety smashing into his chest. She--she did that before. Back then, he and Sherlock came home to find her in his bed. She liked to get a rise out of people. It didn’t have to mean anything.

“Hello,” Irene said as she walked into the sitting room, a smile in her voice.

John lifted his head, and his mouth dropped open.

Irene was wearing a red dressing gown much too big for her. It was loose around her shoulders, revealing bare skin. Sherlock’s dressing gown. She was naked under Sherlock’s dressing gown.

A sharp pain poked John’s stomach, and he nearly blurted out a _what the fuck?_ He barely stopped himself from uttering it.

“John, you came after all,” her red smile twinkled at him. She was naked, but still had a full face of makeup on. What a fool he was for trying to look presentable.

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely. He cleared his throat. “I’ve been here,” he said defensively.

“Hm, and Sherlock is playing his violin,” she looked at him, and then back at John. “What did you do to get under his skin?” she teased.

Sherlock opened his eyes, but his bow still moved across the strings.

“I didn’t do anything,” John smiled bitterly at her. “Sometimes he just likes to play. I should know because I lived with him for close to two years.”

“I can see the tension in his shoulders,” she padded over to the mantle, leaning against it with her hands on her hips. “You could use a massage,” she said to Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed, bringing his playing to a halt. “You’re incorrigible.”

“You knew that when you let me stay here,” she winked.

The sharp pain in John’s stomach dug deeper. He told himself to stay calm, and to think about it. If she had been in Sherlock’s bed because of-- _that_ \--she wouldn’t have perfect makeup on her face. She was just doing this to annoy him, for some reason. He didn’t know why. She had never gone this far before. _But Sherlock isn’t the least bit surprised she’s dressed in his clothes,_ John thought, _or that she was in his room._ Damn it. Sherlock’s total lack of reaction to this was confirmation that something happened between them, wasn’t it?

“You could at least try to be appropriate,” Sherlock said tiredly.

“That’s never been my style. Or yours, for that matter,” she said.

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth lifted. “True.”

“Where’s your little one, John?” Irene asked.

“Daycare,” he said. “She’s started daycare now.”

“Aww,” she pouted, “I wanted to see her again. Children amuse me.”

“She’ll be back here on Saturday,” John said, as a way of saying _yeah, I’ll be back here, too._ “It’s her birthday.”

“Ah, yes, you had mentioned that she’s turning one,” Irene said.

“I’ll tell Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said to John. “She’ll want to bake a cake for her.”

“She could only have a little bit,” John said, although he liked the image of Mrs. Hudson baking for Rosie.

“She’ll make a small cake for her,” Sherlock said, “and a large one for us.”

John laughed a little. “You mean for you.” He saw how much cake Sherlock ate on his birthday.

“Yes,” Sherlock said easily.

Irene was eyeing John, and it felt similar to when Sherlock was analyzing him. It made him uncomfortable. He decided to ignore her.

“Should we tell Molly? I think I will,” he said when Sherlock made a face. “She watched Rosie so much for me when--” he stopped. “You know.” He felt Irene’s eyes on him. When Molly was caring for Rosie, that was when he wrote that atrocious letter to Sherlock. God, he couldn’t think about that now. “Anyway, I’ll text her tonight.”

“I suppose you should,” Sherlock conceded, although it was clear most of his pout was just for show. Sherlock’s fake pout turned into a suppressed smirk. “Mycroft?”

John groaned. “Oh, Sherlock, why would you ask that?”

Sherlock chuckled. “I wasn’t being serious. Besides, he doesn’t know about Irene, and I want to keep it that way. It’ll save me the headache of a lecture.”

“How is the Ice Man, anyway?” Irene asked, tightening the ties of the robe.

Sherlock huffed in annoyance at the nickname. John hadn’t heard that name for Mycroft before, but it seemed to hit a nerve with Sherlock for some reason. “Same as ever,” Sherlock said curtly.

“He hasn’t changed at all?” she asked.

“Nope,” Sherlock’s lips popped around the _p._

John didn’t know what to say. Not that he was ever the most sociable person around, but these two made him feel completely inadequate. He wanted to leave, feeling as if he upset Sherlock with his news, and now he felt unwelcome with her presence taking over the entire room.

“What a pity,” Irene said boredly. “What about dinner tonight? I would offer to take you out, but you know I’m confined here.”

“I’m not in the mood to go out, anyway,” Sherlock replied.

John couldn’t tell if he was just not rising to the bait, or if he missed the flirtatious tone of her voice.

“Then I’ll order food.” She extended her hand. “I’ll use your phone. What do you want?”

“Don’t care,” Sherlock fished his phone out of his suit jacket’s pocket. “Just order.”

“Fine.” Irene dialed a number and began talking on the phone.

“Oh, wait,” Sherlock looked at John, “do you want something?”

John saw this as his opportunity to leave. “No, um, I should get going,” he stood up. “I’ve stayed a good bit, and I shouldn’t overstay my welcome.”

“You’ve been here for thirty-two minutes,” Sherlock said, his voice flat.

Was that all? He used to be able to spend hours with Sherlock without thinking a single minute had gone by. In his heart of hearts, though, he knew Irene wasn’t solely to blame; Sherlock was already giving him the silent treatment (or violin treatment, whatever) after one serious conversation. “Yeah, but I’ll be back here Saturday with Rosie.”

Sherlock took a long breath. “Okay,” he said quietly.

The sharp pain poking his stomach rose to his chest. “I’ll see you soon, okay? Um, have fun.”

Sherlock just nodded, raising his violin to his chin. He resumed his playing.

As John left the flat and slowly made his way down the steps, he heard Irene ask, “What did happen to his wife, anyway? He still wears a ring.”

John couldn’t help himself from stopping on the steps and eavesdropping.

The sound of the violin stopped. “That’s his business, not yours.”

“You really won’t tell me?”

“I really won’t.”

“...You seem distressed.”

John heard footsteps, and it sounded like they were going farther away from him. The music started again, and there were no more words.

John left the building, and he looked up to see Sherlock playing his violin at the window.

The ring’s weight felt oppressive on his finger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to stress, again, that Sherlock is gay (and Irene!) and John is just being dumb lol. No adlock here. Anyway I hope I got across John's frustration and confusion and all around unpleasant mood in this chapter and it wasn't just a jumbled mess.


	4. The Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosie's birthday is more eventful than John thought it would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, thanks for the kudos :) So there's some fluffy baby stuff at the beginning of this chapter, but it won't last long. This is primarily a johnlock story and not parentlock lol

When John got out of bed on Saturday, there was apprehension in his chest for what would come later in the day, but he was happy, too. He felt himself smile wider than usual when he took Rosie out of her crib.

“Hey,” he laughed lightly. “It’s your birthday today, do you know that? No, of course you don’t,” he amended.

Rosie responded to his good mood with a smile of her own. “Dada,” she flopped a small hand onto his face.

He set her down on her changing table. “You’re going to have a party today. You’ve never had a party before.” He took off her wet nappy and thought about it. “Well. There was a small celebration when you were born, and your christening. But, um, let’s not think about that now.” He threw the nappy in the bin and put a clean one on her, pulling down her green pajama shirt. “There, that’s better. I’ll wash my hands and give you breakfast, okay?” He did just that, and sat Rosie down in her height chair and laid out cereal in front of her while he ate a piece of toast. He watched her pick up the bits of cereal and feed herself. It was amazing how much a year meant in terms of development. She was still clumsy with utensils, but she wasn’t completely helpless anymore, and could even stand, as long as she could lean against a piece of furniture for support.

“A whole year,” John breathed. “You’ve been here for a whole year, and you don’t even know. Heh, I wish I were unaware of my age, too.”

Rosie missed her mouth, and a piece of cereal fell onto her bib.

John got it and fed it to her. “There you go.”

She chewed with her mouth open, staring at him with interested, but still sleepy blue eyes.

John ate another mouthful of toast. A whole year. How much had happened in one fucking year? He nearly cheated on his wife, then she fled the country, got shot to save the man she tried to kill in the first place, he shut himself down for weeks, and he didn’t need to think about the whole Culverton ordeal again. All in a fucking year. John rubbed his eyes. Upon reflection, he wasn’t really sure if his life was better or worse a year ago. Mary was with him a year ago, but his relationship with Sherlock had been better.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t all there for the first year of your life,” he muttered. “But I’m here now.”

Rosie ate the last piece of cereal and then sucked on her fingers.

“All done?” John picked her up and took her bib off. “Well, we don’t have to go to Sherlock’s for a few more hours, but I do have something for you.” He walked with her over to the sofa, where her new toys were. The good thing about giving a gift to a one year-old was that he was able to buy the items and put them in the flat without trying to hide it. That would probably change for her next birthday, or the one after that. Admittedly, he didn’t know much about buying baby toys, but she wasn’t going to hate these, right?

He placed Rosie on the floor and sat behind her. He reached over and took the first item out of the shopping bag. It was a small plush doll of Rapunzel, the one from the Disney movie. Molly babysat Rosie on occasion, and said that the movie caught her attention for a significant amount of time, considering her young age. John figured this gift couldn’t hurt, right? It was a soft, blonde doll. She couldn’t dislike it, right?

Rosie reached out and held the doll. “Ahhhh.”

“Erm, is that a good baby noise?”

Rosie squeezed the doll. She let out a small giggle, and waved the doll around with her right hand.

“I guess that was a good choice,” John snorted. “I suppose I’ll have to watch that movie with you, if you like it. Hm. Haven’t watched a kids film in over thirty years.”

She stared at the doll, and chewed on its arm.

“One more thing,” John said, and carefully leaned over her to pull out a small xylophone from the bag. It was small, brightly colored, and he was pretty sure he had one of these as a kid. The small mallet was attached to the toy by a red string, and he picked it up to tap on one of the keys, emitting a light sound. “Hear that, Rosie?”

She took the doll out of her mouth. “Uh?”

He did it again, and put the mallet in her hand.

And, well, if Rosie banged on the xylophone for the next twenty minutes, that meant John picked out a good gift, right? It made her happy, and it was good to stimulate her growing brain (he was sure Sherlock would say that). He supposed the headache he got from the xylophone was worth it, if it meant she liked her first birthday presents.

* * *

John brought Rosie to Baker Street for five o’clock, and was aware that he should have felt happier about his daughter’s first birthday party, but he never thought Irene fucking Adler would be there. Damn, he had to stop thinking about himself. It wasn’t about him today. Once he got Rosie out of her pram, he smoothed down her purple dress, and sighed. “Well. You probably won’t process what’s happening, but I hope you’ll have some fun.”

“Dada.”

“Yeah.” He carried her up the steps, and as he got closer to the door, he heard people talking, and cringed internally when he heard Irene’s voice. Well, whatever. He’d just have to stop acting like  a baby for one day and celebrate the actual baby in the room. When he entered the room, he was greeted by Mrs. Hudson and Molly--well, actually, he wasn’t greeted, but Rosie was.

“There she is!” Mrs. Hudson immediately held out her arms. “I can’t believe it’s her birthday already!”

“She’s even bigger than from the last time I saw her,” Molly smiled at her.

“Hello to you, too,” John smiled, and handed Rosie to Mrs. Hudson. He looked up and realized there were brightly colored balloons all around the sitting room and in the kitchen.

Rosie looked up at them, pointing. “Ah!”

“You want to see?” Mrs. Hudson laughed. “Here, let me pull one down for you.”

John saw Irene sitting in his chair (again!), but this time, she was wearing a low-cut shirt and sleek trousers. For her, and especially in contrast to last time, it was a modest look. At least she wasn’t sauntering around naked with his baby in the room.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was sitting on the sofa, giving John a look.  
“What?” John asked quietly as Molly and Mrs. Hudson showed Rosie the balloons.

“I’ve had to entertain all three of them for the past fifteen minutes,” he grumbled under his breath.

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Irene pout, and he couldn’t hold back a snort. “Must’ve been tragic for you.”

“Unbearably so,” Sherlock said dramatically.

“Where’d you get the balloons?”

“Molly got them.”

“Thanks, Molly,” John said over his shoulder.

“You’re welcome,” she said as she got a blue balloon and put it in Rosie’s hand.

“Hungry?” Sherlock asked. “There’s pizza in the kitchen.”

“Yeah, actually, I’ll go get some.”

The next thirty minutes were...pleasant, but odd. It was nice to get to talk to Mrs. Hudson and Molly again, and while John was used to Sherlock’s relative silence during social situations, Irene’s presence made everything a hair uncomfortable. She was the outcast in this setting, and John didn’t miss Molly’s glances towards her every so often. When he got the chance, John pulled Molly off to the side.

“You okay?” he whispered.

“Yeah,” she whispered back, conscious of Sherlock’s (and Irene’s) hawk-like observation skills. “It’s just--what’s she doing here? I came in and got no explanation--”

“Typical Sherlock,” John rolled his eyes. “I’ll text you later, okay? I’ll tell you then.”

She nodded. “Um,” she pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “Are they…? Is that why she’s here?”

John bit his lip. “It’s not why she’s here, but...I really have no fucking idea.”

Molly nodded again, and then looked up. “Hi.”

John turned around, and Sherlock was there. Of course he was. “What’s up?” he tried to play it casually.

He just looked at them for a moment. “And you say I’m the antisocial one,” he said to John. “The party’s over there, not in a corner.” His tone was in between amused and annoyed.

John just walked past him and Molly, feeling like his tail was in between his legs. “Is she having fun?” he put a smile on his face.

“Oh, she’s such a dear,” Mrs. Hudson chuckled. “Do you want her to have cake first, or open her presents?”

“Cake now,” John said, thinking it might clear out some of the weirdness in the air. “I can hold her for that,” he held out his arms. “Ready to have cake?” he asked Rosie with a grin.

Mrs. Hudson opened the refrigerator and placed a buttercream cake on the table, and then reached inside again to grab a small, baby-sized cake.

John laughed at the size of it. “You made her an individual cake?”

“Of course I did,” she set it on the table next to the larger cake. “It can be hers to smash and do what she pleases.”

“Smart,” Sherlock said, walking up next to John.

“Oh, how cute!” Molly said. She took out her phone and took a picture of it.

“Must you take photos of food?” Sherlock asked tiredly.

“Yep,” she said absentmindedly. She held up her phone. “John, let me get a photo of you and Rosie.”

“Oh, I’m awful in photos,” John let out a self-deprecating chuckle.

“Nonsense,” Sherlock said.

John didn’t say anything. “Erm, okay, yeah. I guess I haven’t gotten a recent photo of me and her together.” It was ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous, that a single word from Sherlock had sent a wave of warmth to John’s cheeks. He hoped it wasn’t visible. He smiled with Rosie, hugging her close.

“There,” Molly smiled in satisfaction. “I’ll send it to you later.”

Mrs. Hudson put a single candle on the little cake. “Shoot, I haven’t got a lighter.”

“I do,” Sherlock said, and disappeared into his room for a moment.

Irene decided to get up from her (John’s) chair and stroll over to the kitchen table, standing next to John on his right side.

“Happy birthday,” Irene offered a smile to Rosie.

John wasn’t really sure what to say to her, so he just readjusted his hold on Rosie.

Sherlock came back in and lit the one candle, and put the lighter next to the sink. “Do we have to sing?” he asked with a small grimace.

“No,” John said. He wasn’t really the singing type.

“Yes!” Mrs. Hudson and Molly protested simultaneously.

“Then you do it,” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

They sang “Happy Birthday” to Rosie, both a bit off-key. Sherlock and John shared a glance, and they had to stifle their laughter. They really were not very good. But it only lasted for a moment, and then they clapped. Rosie reacted to the excitement by giggling. Well, at least _she_ liked the singing.

After pieces of cake were cut, John placed Rosie on the kitchen table. She smashed her hand into the cake.

“Well, she’ll need quite a bath,” John sighed as he watched Rosie lick her cake-covered hands. “But, it’s once a year, eh?”

Molly took several pictures of Rosie making a mess of her cake. “I’ll be sure to send all of these to you, John.”

Rosie stared at the cake, and decided to put her foot on top of it.

“Rosie!” John grabbed her small foot and placed it back on the table. “You don’t eat with your feet.”

“I knew her own cake would be a good idea,” Mrs. Hudson smiled triumphantly.

Sherlock was busy eating his second slice of cake.

Irene refused too have a slice. “My figure is essential to my work,” she smirked, putting her elbows on the table and watching Rosie in amusement.

John could practically feel Molly’s flinch.

“I just can’t believe it’s been a year,” Mrs. Hudson shook her head. “I’ll make her cake next year, too.”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” John said, but he was smiling.

“It’s really no trouble,” she waved her hand. “I would have written on the large cake, too, but ‘Rosamund’ is a little long to write out, and my hands aren’t as steady as they used to be, dear.”

Irene’s light eyes widened, and her head snapped up to look at John. “Rosamund?”

John didn’t think he ever saw her look that surprised. Nothing ever shook her. It immediately made anxiety bloom in his stomach. “...Yes?”

She stood up straight, her eyes still wide. “That’s her name?”

“Yes?” John said again.

Sherlock had stopped eating, and was staring at Irene intently. “What is it?”

Irene shook her head, putting her hand under her chin. “I’ve only heard that name once before, and…” She blinked at John. “Knowing about your interactions with him, it seems like too much of a coincidence.”

“There are no coincidences in the world,” Sherlock abandoned his plate on the table. “What is it?” he asked again.

“I knew a woman named Rosamund,” she told Sherlock, and there was a rare hesitance to her voice. “She was a trained assassin who worked for Jim.”

The strangest thing happened. John wasn’t shocked. He wasn’t enraged. He just...he knew. Now that Irene said it, everything fell into place. It was like he just received the puzzle piece he hadn’t known he was missing. Once it was said, it was clear that in the deepest recesses of his mind, he knew. The anxiety in his gut turned into ice, and another unsettling chill slithered down his spine. He swore he felt his skin break out into gooseflesh under his shirt.

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open, and he struggled to compose himself. “She--you knew her?”

“Sherlock, what’s she talking about?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

“I knew of her,” Irene clarified. “Jim talked about the work she did.”

John couldn’t speak. He felt like someone hit the pause button on him.

Sherlock sprung into action. “Well, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, don’t you think it’s time to give Rosie her gifts?”

“She’s still eating,” Mrs. Hudson said.

“I think that’s a great idea,” Molly picked her up, reading the room. “We can let her have cake _and_ open her presents. Mrs. Hudson, carry her cake into the sitting room while I carry her?”

“Well, all right,” she picked up the small cake, giving Sherlock and John a confused look.

John was still frozen, or at least that was what it felt like. Mary worked for Moriarty. The whole time. She knew. She knew Moriarty was the one who tore their lives apart…

Once Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and Rosie were in the other room and out of earshot, Sherlock shut the doors separating the sitting room and kitchen. He turned to Irene. “Tell me everything you know about Rosamund.”

“Well,” she put her hands on her hips, looking down at the table in thought. “I believe she worked for Jim starting about ten years ago. He praised her as one of his best men--or, women. She was a crack shot. Whenever he needed snipers, she was always there.”

“Whenever?” John spoke with a croaky voice for the first time since this revelation. The Pool…?

“Yes,” she said in a tone which indicated she knew she ruined the entire party.

“You don’t have much knowledge of what she was told to do by Moriarty, I’m assuming?” Sherlock asked.

“I really don’t,” Irene said honestly. “Like I said, I only knew her by name. I didn’t really talk to any of his workers. John, she’s your child’s mother? Wait, she’s dead, isn’t she?”

“I never told you that,” John said woodenly, because no other words could come to his mouth. Everything was bouncing around wildly in his head.

“It wasn’t difficult to conclude,” she said. “I asked you what happened to her mother, and it seemed to be a touchy subject. How did she die?” she asked inappropriately. “From the way Jim praised her, I thought she was untouchable.”

The icy feeling in John’s stomach was making him sick. _She got shot. She got shot protecting the man she tried to kill herself._ It still didn’t make any damn sense.

“Not important,” Sherlock dismissed, glancing at John nervously.

“How did you even meet her?” Irene asked John, seemingly fascinated by this situation.

“She,” John struggled to speak, “she left her old life behind, or so she said. I first met her as a nurse at my clinic. I didn’t know about her being an assassin until.” He swallowed. “She shot Sherlock.”

Sherlock was silent, looking surprised that John said this to Irene.

She looked at Sherlock, her light eyes roaming over his body, as if she was trying to pinpoint where he was shot. Then, her laser-like gaze turned back to John--more specifically, his finger. “And you stayed with her,” she said quietly. “Interesting.”

That broke through the ice in John’s stomach, and fire ran through his veins. “And who the fuck are you to judge?” he pointed his finger at Irene, startling her and Sherlock. “You worked for that piece of shit Moriarty, who hurt countless people and nearly got Sherlock killed. You’re a manipulator for a living.” His voice was rising, but he couldn’t help it. The numbness he felt was gone and liquid hot rage was pouring into his gut. Who the fuck did Irene think she was? And _Mary_. She kept this from him. All that time, she kept him completely in the dark, even after he knew about her former occupation. John felt his fists start to shake--since when had he balled his hands into fists?

Irene’s startled eyes turned into lasers again. “Working for him didn’t turn out well for me in the end, you know--”

“Don’t care,” he spat.

“So,” she crossed her arms, “you _did_ stay with her.” Her voice was like silk, all hesitance gone and replaced with crude intrigue. “It was clear from your blog that you like danger, but you’ve still surprised me, Doctor Watson.”

The thoughts bouncing around in his head were invaded by a cloud of guilt. “It was a bad situation.” His defense was weak and he knew it. “But again, who the hell are you to talk? I didn’t forget how you hurt Sherlock before--”

“John,” Sherlock held up his hands, trying to placate him.

“You don’t deserve Sherlock’s kindness or his flat’s protection.” He wanted to scream at her, but he was already making a scene.

But John was not about to stand her and have Sherlock tell him that Irene wasn’t that bad, or he was overreacting, or whatever. Mary fucking lied to him, again! “I need some air.” He walked out of the door from the kitchen leading to the stairs. He walked down into the entryway of the building and put his aching head into his hands. Mary knew about the Fall. She dated him while Sherlock was “dead”--of course she knew. She knew how devastated John was. She knew how deeply his grief cut his heart. The whole fucking time, while he opened up to her and only her about Sherlock’s death, she had been an accomplice to Moriarty the whole time! The whole fucking time!

John was breathing out of his mouth, and he felt a presence. He looked up and couldn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. “God, Sherlock, let me be, would you?”

Sherlock pressed his lips together. “Sorry. I wanted to know if you were okay.”

“Of course I’m not fucking okay,” John growled, and he was so fucking angry that he started to rant right then and there. “Mary sat there the whole fucking time I told her about you, when you were gone, acting all shocked and sad and fucking sympathetic. And she was with Moriarty the whole time. Sherlock!” A thought occurred to him, his mind racing. Was this what Sherlock normally felt like? Everything was crashing down upon him into place, a horrible, disgusting place. “She knew who I was, then, when we started dating. Do you think she was sent to me by Moriarty’s men? What kind of weird coincidence would it be for one of Moriarty’s worker to just so happen date me?”

“I just had the same thought,” Sherlock said quietly, looking at the floor with his hands folded behind his back. “Out of all the men in the world, what was the likelihood that she would start dating you by chance? It doesn’t make sense.”

“You’re fucking right it doesn’t make sense!” he shouted. There was fire in his veins, but he felt his face growing pale. “Oh god, what a fucking moron I was. I fell for it. I fell for _her_.” He put his head in his hands again, embarrassed that he was breaking down in front of Sherlock like this, and embarrassed he was talking about falling for Mary. Talking about his love life always made them both uncomfortable. He needed to control himself, but it was so hard. As fucked up as his relationship with Mary was, he thought that somewhere deep down, she had loved him. Was that all a lie, too? Why did she even marry him? Why did she have his child?

John didn’t know how to deal with this. Mary was going to spend the rest of her life without telling John about this. She worked for the man who tore them apart. She knew. She _knew_ . She listened to him _cry_ about Sherlock. Yet, he truly wasn’t surprised. He was angry as hell, but it added up too nicely for him to ignore. How else would an assassin just so happen to start dating him?

“I can’t,” John threw up his hands. “You know what? I can’t deal with it right now. It’s too much to process.” He needed to get out of here. He couldn’t bear to look at Sherlock any longer, or be in the same building with the bloody Woman. He married the person who tried to kill them both once, and worked for the man who tried to kill Sherlock, and then tried to kill him herself. He was a fool. God damn it, he was a fucking fool for thinking she ever loved him. As much as he tried to deny it, he deserved Irene’s judgment.

“I understand,” Sherlock sighed. “I’ll get Rosie for you.”

John was about to say he could have done that himself, but Sherlock was already going up the steps. He rubbed his eyes. God damn it, he felt like he was about to explode.

Sherlock brought down a confused Rosie, who was holding an old Winnie the Pooh plush in her hand. It must have been one of her gifts. Sherlock strapped her into the pram with the toy bear, and then he was back up the steps.

John looked at Rosie. “Sorry for ruining your big day,” he said with a slight rasp to his voice.

Sherlock came back downstairs. “I’ll send her other gifts from today to your place. I assume you want to get out of here as soon as possible.”

John nodded. “Thanks,” he muttered, vaguely aware that he was being kind of a dick right now, but he could focus on nothing else but the sting of betrayal in his chest. “What about Molly and Mrs. Hudson?”

“I told them you had to leave for circumstances which are none of their business.”

John managed to give a half-hearted laugh. “Tell them I said thanks, anyway.”

He walked home with Rose with steam coming out of his ears and an aching heart. He held back his anger as best as he could when they got home, and he rocked Rosie to sleep as quickly as possible (which was not quick at all, since she started crying about a block away from home). When she was finally down for a nap in her room, John’s anger boiled over and he had to get a pillow off his bed to stifle his scream. His knees shook, and he fell to them, crying into the fabric, squeezing the pillow so tightly that his fingers hurt. His finger--his ring. John lifted his head and ripped the ring from his finger, hurling it at the wall. It smashed into the wall with a loud _clink_ and dropped to the floor. Breathing out of his mouth, a wave of tears came again, and he cried into the pillow again. He was just so, so fucking angry, and he was so tired of being so angry.

It was getting difficult to catch his breath, so John forced himself to breathe through his nose, but the tears still fell. He felt _embarrassed_. He shared his grief over Sherlock with no one else more than Mary. She must have been laughing at him on the inside the whole time. John rose from his knees and got on the bed, lying on his back, the tears dripping down his temples. He closed his eyes. What a fucking mess today turned out to be. Couldn’t he have one normal day?

* * *

He must have fallen asleep, because he was roused by a vibration in his pocket. Groggy, he pulled his phone out of his jeans pocket and blinked blearily at the screen. It was a text from Sherlock.

_For what it’s worth, if it’s worth anything at all, I think she did love you in the end._

It didn’t matter how much he cried earlier; no one knew how to twist his heart like Sherlock did. This whole thing did make John feel unlovable. He didn’t feel much better about that now. Even if she did love him, what was the use of being loved by a killer? He sat up. He couldn’t have been asleep long, because the silence of the flat told him Rosie was still napping. He stared at Sherlock’s message again, but couldn’t answer it. How could he tell Sherlock how worthless he felt? How do you tell your male best friend that you feel like an unlovable piece of shit? He was still angry, but after a quick nap, he felt ashamed. He ruined Rosie’s day.

Putting his own feelings aside, he made it up to her that night by playing with her and her new toys. She seemed to like the Winnie the Pooh plush the most. Late at night, he was holding her against his chest as she slept in her new pajamas from Molly. “You were the only good thing that came from Mary,” he whispered. “I’m still sorry for cutting your birthday short.”

A part of him was disgusted with Irene, but he supposed he should have been grateful towards her. He knew the truth now. Even in death, Mary couldn’t lie to him forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The core conflict of John thinking Sherlock likes Irene etc., etc., will return, but this chapter just kind of happened lol.  
> As a side note, my cousin did decide to put her foot on top of her miniature cake on her 1st birthday like Rosie here :P


	5. A Morning Visit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock shows up at John's place the next morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is basically a conversation lol, but don't worry, they're not even close to sorting things out :D

A loud buzz broke through John’s uneasy sleep. He opened his eyes, braced his hands on the cushion beneath him, and pushed himself up. He was in the sitting room. Oh, he must have fallen asleep on the sofa after he put Rosie to bed last night. The television was still on. John sat all the way up with a groan, fumbling for the remote squished between his body and the back of the sofa. He turned it off and scratched at his unshaven jaw as he walked to the door. He was in a T-shirt and his pants, but he was too drained to care. He had spent hours last night thinking about Mary, everything she said and did to him and Sherlock until her death. He tried thinking about her motivations for what she did until he wanted to scream and throw something. He didn’t remember going to sleep, but he must have given in to exhaustion. He didn’t feel well-rested.  He opened the door.

Sherlock was standing there.

Well. Now he cared that he was in his pants. John rubbed his eyes. “Christ, Sherlock, what?” He didn’t mean to sound so harsh, but what time even was it?  
“I have Rosie’s other gifts,” he said, lifting his arms.

Sure enough, he had boxes in his arms. John was more out of it than he thought. He didn’t exactly sleep well last night, and he wasn’t really sure what to say to Sherlock right now. “Thanks,” he nodded. “Come in.” He wasn’t up for a visit right now, but he couldn’t just turn him away, with Rosie’s presents in her arms and all.

“Just give me a sec,” John muttered, and entered his room and put on a pair of pajama pants. Maybe he was just being self-conscious, but even in the time they lived together, Sherlock never saw him in his pants, so it was a little weird. John caught a glimpse of the clock in his bedroom, and it was just before seven. Damn, he knew it was early. His tongue felt heavy. Toothpaste. He needed toothpaste. And food. “I’m just gonna pop in the loo for a minute,” he called to Sherlock. He brushed his teeth, used the toilet, and tried splashing some water on his face, to relieve the drained look in his eyes, but to no avail. He remembered the text Sherlock sent him last night.

 _For what it’s worth, if it’s worth anything at all, I think she did love you in the end,_ Sherlock had texted. John stared at himself in the mirror. After spending hours blankly staring at his television screen last night, he realized that what bothered him wasn’t the doubt that Mary loved him, but the knowledge that she _did_. In whatever capacity she could, she cared about him. It was just that she always cared about herself more. She cared about herself more, and John didn’t want her love. He only wanted one person’s love (besides Rosie’s), and the funny thing was that he knew Sherlock cared about him more than himself. He knew from so many instances, but especially the Culverton near-death experience. If only Sherlock cared about him in the way he wanted.

John walked out from the bathroom.

Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table and holding a banana. Rosie was eating a small piece of it in her height chair.

“Da!” she smiled when she saw him. “Nana.”

“Yes, it is a banana,” John said in confusion. “You took her out of bed?” he asked Sherlock.

“She started fussing while you were in the loo,” Sherlock said. “I figured she was hungry. I don’t know what you feed her in the morning, but I saw this.”

“That’s fine,” John opened up the refrigerator. “She likes them. I don’t have to tell you to make sure the pieces aren’t too big.”

“You insult my intelligence,” Sherlock sighed. “Anyway, I put the boxes containing her other gifts next to the sofa.”

“Thanks,” John said, and sat down at the table with a yogurt. “Have you eaten?”

Sherlock nodded as he broke off another piece for Rosie.

John started eating. This all felt so domestic, unsettlingly so, considering what had happened yesterday. It was a nice distraction, sure, but it felt unnatural. He knew Sherlock was trying, though. John wanted to talk with him, but how could they talk about anything without bringing up the elephant in the room?

As if on cue, they locked eyes.

Sherlock looked down and sighed. “John.”

“I know,” John said before he took another spoonful of yogurt. Were they really about to have this conversation, while he had a mouthful of strawberry yogurt? It seemed so. “I’m not sure I want to talk about it,” he said once he swallowed.

“Nanananana,” Rosie said and reached out her hand.  
Sherlock gave her more.

“Say ‘thank you,’” John mumbled absentmindedly.

“Tha.”

“You’re welcome,” Sherlock said, but he was looking at John. There was a tightness around his mouth. “How do you feel?”

“You know that’s a stupid question,” John put his elbow on the table and his cheek in his hand.

“I do,” Sherlock admitted, “but I don’t know what else to ask.”

“I can ask the same thing,” John redirected the conversation. “How do _you_ feel about this?”

“Me?” he asked with a raised eyebrow. “What does that matter?”

John’s hand tightened around his spoon for a moment. “I dunno. Finding out the woman who almost murdered you actually worked for the man who also tried to murder you might have been interesting.”

Sherlock looked like he was trying to control his expression. “Interesting, yes,” he said coolly. “That’s a way to put it.”

“Seriously,” John put down the spoon. He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, growing agitated. “I want to know your reaction to this. She affected you just as much as me.”

Sherlock looked like he wanted to argue against that, but he declined. A wrinkle formed in between his eyebrows. “You really want the truth?”

“Yeah. It’s not going to hurt my feelings. Look,” he held up his left hand. “I haven’t got a ring on.”

“I noticed,” Sherlock said.

John sighed. “Course you did,” he muttered.

Sherlock’s posture was tense. “I feel lied to,” he said slowly. “I feel as if every positive interaction with her had an unequal power balance. She always knew the truth, and I think she got a rise out of it.” His lips pressed together. “I think she felt that way for both of us.”

“I think so, too,” John said. He thought this conversation would have been painful, but hearing someone else say what he was thinking last night actually eased some of the weight off his chest. “I think she hated you,” he said bluntly.

Sherlock’s eyes flickered down at the table.

Shit. “I’m sorry,” John said awkwardly.

“No, it’s okay,” he said, and paused the conversation to give Rosie more food. “I was a fool,” anger slowly dripped into his voice, “for thinking she ever liked me.”

A memory of Sherlock looking hurt in the office of Sebastian Wilkes flashed before John’s eyes. He felt a pin enter his chest. He just wanted to be _liked_. John wanted to reach out to him, but stopped himself. “Me, too,” he gave a self-deprecating laugh.

Sherlock smirked a little. He opened his mouth, but John cut him off.

“About your text last night, I think you’re right. But did it really matter in the end? She always loved herself more than anyone else, even Rosie. Remember how she left Rosie to go find Ajay?”

“I do,” Sherlock nodded, “and I think you’re correct. She loved you, but that doesn’t mean she liked you. No offense.”

“None taken.”

They both sighed.

“Shuh. Shuuuh.”

Sherlock gave her more banana. “She was a moron, anyway,” Sherlock muttered.

“How so?”

“No one in their right mind would abandon a perfectly good husband--and child.”

The spoonful of yogurt paused before John brought it up to his lips. He quickly put the spoonful in his mouth, trying not to be obvious, trying to hide the heat he felt filling his cheeks. He had no idea what to say. “Mmm.”

Sherlock blinked a couple times and turned his attention back to Rosie. “Do you always feed her this slowly?” he asked nervously. “It’s tedious.”

“Better safe than sorry,” John said, and took his last spoonful of yogurt. He hoped his face wasn’t flushed. They sat in silence for a couple minutes. Mary had disliked him, but he outright told her he didn’t like her anymore. At least on that, they were on the same page.

“No,” Rosie pushed the piece of banana away.

“No more?” Sherlock asked.

“It is a big piece of fruit for a one year-old,” John said, standing up. “Rosie, how ‘bout you watch _Peppa Pig_ while Daddy talks to Sherlock?” He hated that show, but it would keep her occupied for a few minutes. John sat her in front of the television with several pillows  and her new Winnie the Pooh toy and turned on the obnoxious preschool pig for her.

John threw the empty yogurt container in the recyclables and sat back down at the table.

Sherlock had his hands folded on the table. His hair was perfectly combed, his coat was on, and his blue scarf was tied around his neck.

“You can take your coat and scarf off, Sherlock.”

“Well, I didn’t plan on staying long.”

John’s mouth twisted to the side. “Why, d’you need to get back to her?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed slightly. “No,” he said firmly. He undid his scarf, but kept his coat on. He put his bunched up scarf on the table, holding it in his hands and leaning forward on his elbows. “I imagine you won’t be returning to the flat as long as she’s there.”

John hadn’t thought about it. “If she stays the fuck away from me, I can still visit,” he grumbled. She had no right to judge him for staying with Mary when she was working for Moriarty in the first place. Even if she were morally correct...but since when did Irene care about morals? She only said it to get under his skin.

“She should have held her tongue,” Sherlock said, as if reading his mind. “I don’t blame you for growing angry.”

“Hmph.” John scratched at his jaw, feeling the stubble he didn’t have time to shave away. He supposed that he could hold his tongue, too, somewhat. Sherlock probably wouldn’t appreciate a full on bashing of Irene. He could keep his mouth shut a little, but only for his sake. “Well, think whatever you want of her. I won’t judge. I just can’t respect a person like her, but that’s just me.”

There was a hint of confusion in the furrow between Sherlock’s eyebrows. “I’m not sure if I respect her, either. I don’t know the word for how I regard her.”

John swallowed. “The great Sherlock Holmes can’t find his words?” The tease sounded hollow to his ears. God, Irene had always done that to him, hadn’t she? John remembered when Sherlock stuttered and stammered in front of her as she sat naked during their first meeting. A hand was squeezing his stomach.

Sherlock didn’t respond to that. He turned his head towards the sitting room and grimaced. “Do you actually watch that drivel with her?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Hm. I suppose it’s not too beneath what you normally watch.”

“That’s enough.”

Sherlock smirked. As he watched Rosie, his lips gradually pulled down into a frown, and he turned his head to John. “I can’t believe she’s a year old.”

“I was thinking the same thing yesterday. So much happened in one bloody year.”

The tightness around Sherlock’s mouth returned. “I know.”

John forced the memories of his violent actions to leave his mind. He promised not to speak of the incident anymore. “At least it’s all over now, I guess. We know the truth.”

“I should have known,” Sherlock said, shaking his head in frustration. “I’m _supposed_ to know things and see through people.” He looked down at the scarf in his hands. “I can’t figure one thing out. Why did she die the way she did?”

John sighed heavily. Yet another thought that was plaguing his mind last night was on the tip of his tongue. “You’re going to think I’m crazy, but...well, she knew there was no way out from her past, right? And I think she knew I...would react the way I did.”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock lifted his face.

Shame wrapped around him like a vice. “I mean how I treated you like utter shit after she died,” he said dryly.

Sherlock sighed. “John, I told you not to--”

“I don’t mean that in particular,” he clarified, “although, yeah, that was obviously a big part of it. The Culverton case aside, I still blamed you, and only you, for her actions. I was up almost all last night, Sherlock, and I can’t help but think that was her final way to get back at you--and me.” It sounded crazier once he said it aloud.

But Sherlock’s features were smoothing out in a familiar expression of realization. “I think you’re right, John. I can’t see why else she would take a bullet for me, of all people, when she was more than willing for me to be shot before,” he ended the sentence bitterly.

John wasn’t sure if he ever saw Sherlock actively angry towards Mary before. “And then she lied and lied and lied,” he breathed, putting his elbow on the table again and putting his cheek in his hand. He chuckled. “God, did she lie.”

“I still should have seen it,” Sherlock gripped his scarf tighter.

John put his free hand on Sherlock’s forearm. “You got the last laugh, eh? You’re here and she’s in the ground.”

Sherlock started laughing. “John, that’s unethical.”

“Since when do you care about ethics?” John laughed, too. “Especially about death! You make jokes whilst standing over corpses.”

“Yes, but those are corpses I don’t know.”

“So it’s better to make jokes over dead strangers than dead friends? Or, ex-friends?”

“Of course. I’m indifferent to those corpses.”

“God, Sherlock, ever stop and think we’re fucked up?”

“All the time,” he said softly, his voice smooth and happy.

John smiled, sighing through his nose. “Well, the point is she’s gone now. She can’t play games anymore. I think it’s best to forget about her…” John groaned and let go of Sherlock’s arm. “Damn it.”

“What?” Sherlock frowned.

“Rosamund Mary Watson. She named the baby after herself twice.” He felt disgust. “She did get the last laugh.”

“You can legally change her name,” Sherlock said. “I can badger Mycroft into having the paperwork done for you by the middle of the week.”

“I could,” John thought about it. “I don’t know a middle name for her, though.”

“She doesn’t have to have a middle name.”

“You have, what, two? Isn’t ‘Sherlock’ your middle name, and ‘William’ is your first?”

Sherlock puffed out his chest. “No, I’m Sherlock,” he grumbled.

“Don’t like being called William?”

He grimaced. “It’s dull.”

“Will.”

“Stop it.”

“How about Billy?”

His grimace turned into a pained wince. “Stop it, Hamish.”

John dropped it. “Ugh. All right, Sherlock. Come to think of it, maybe she doesn’t need a middle name after all. Hm. How about Rose Watson?”

“I think it’s better than her current name.”

“Mary won’t have a single trace left in our lives, then.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m going to remember the shit she did, and I can never fully forget her because of Rosie, but I want to move on. I’m still pissed and wish she were alive just so I could tell her off, but I’m tired of her upsetting me.” John looked down at his finger, as the tan line left by the ring. Was the ring still in his room, where he’d thrown it last night? He had to do something about that. He’d bin it later. “Like I said, I’m still angry, but I consider her a part of my--our--lives that’s over. Can we leave her behind, with the rest of last year? I’m--god, I’m tired of thinking about her.”

Sherlock nodded, staring at him intently. “Yes, I think that’s the best course of action, if that’s what you want.”

“What about what _you_ want?”

“I have no reason to object.” His fingers twisted a loose string on his scarf. “Before, I was civil towards her mainly out of courtesy to you. After she shot me, that is. Now, knowing she worked for him, I don’t think I’d be able to respect her memory even if you wanted me to. It would be difficult.”

He felt badly that Sherlock had to play nice with his would-be murderer for him, but John dropped the thought. “Then let’s just fucking leave her in the past,” he let out a deep breath. “We had lives before her, and we’ll have lives with it being just us again. And Rosie.”

Sherlock looked away, casting a glance over at Rosie. His voice was distant. “Yes, we managed just fine without her before.”

The shift in mood made John uneasy. He cleared his throat.

When Sherlock looked back at him, his expression was as if he had just received bad news. His eyes were intense, but not because of their usual laser-like gaze, but because of a remorseful look too striking to ignore.

“Hey, you all right?” John asked, the uneasy feeling turning into concern.

Sherlock just stared at him. It wasn’t like when he would get lost in his mind and stare into space. He was clearly consciously staring at John. But then he picked up his scarf and tied it around his neck. “Yes,” he said. “I was thinking I should head home.”

“Why?” John asked. “Um, you don’t have to.” Did he do or say something wrong? He couldn’t pinpoint the source of his mood change.

Sherlock stood up, smoothing out his scarf and coat. “Thank you, but I’ll take my leave. I have something to discuss with Mycroft.”

A beat. “What, you’re not telling me what it is?”

“It’s not important,” Sherlock tucked his scarf into his coat.

“You’re lying,” John accused. Why was he acting so weird all of a sudden? Seriously, was it something he said?

“Don’t be silly,” Sherlock muttered. “Besides, don’t you have job hunting to do? Rather, workers to find for your practice?”

John stood up. That...was a non sequitur. “It’s Sunday,” he pointed out, “no one's gonna take my call on a Sunday.” He tried to retrace his steps--or, their conversation. All he said before Sherlock got weird was that they had lives before Mary, and their lives would go back to just the two of them...Oh. Wait. Did Sherlock tense up because it wouldn’t be just the two of them? Was Irene now a part of their lives? Even though Irene said she would leave eventually, did Sherlock consider her in the picture now? Would he keep in contact with her after she left? “If you have to leave, though, I understand,” John said, feeling glum after momentary happiness with Sherlock.

“You know where to find me,” he said, walking out of the kitchen. He looked down at Rosie. “I’ll see you later.”

Rosie was gnawing on the paw of the Winnie the Pooh and was focused on the television.

John shuffled into the living room, arms crossed over his chest. “Bye, then.”

“Goodbye,” Sherlock said over his shoulder and saw himself out.

John sat down next to Rosie after they were alone, putting his head in his hands with a groan. “Oh god, that’s it, isn’t it? Mary’s gone, but Irene’s here. She’ll be the woman in his life--our lives.”

Rosie pointed at the screen. “Pep.”

“I know it’s Peppa Pig,” John didn’t bother looking up. “Is he that into her, that I made him so uncomfortable by saying it’d only be us again? And you,” he added.

“Pep. Pep.”

“Rosie, I know it’s Peppa.” He sat up, then laid back on the carpet, staring at the ceiling. “Even after last night, she’s still important to him. I guess I can’t blame him. After that night in Magnussen’s office, I stayed with Mary...” _It’s what I deserve._

Rosie slapped a hand on his thigh. “Dada down.”

“Daddy went down, yeah. What if he really does keep in touch with her after? I’m sure he’d find some way to do it. He always finds a way.” He pictured Sherlock Skyping with her on a regular basis and shuddered. Maybe John really wouldn’t be rid of her after she left the country. He should have been happy for his friend. For some reason, Sherlock fancied her. _For some reason? Just look at her, John. And she’s cleverer than you._ “I was the one who told him to pursue her,” he said to the ceiling. “I can’t stand her, but if she makes him happy, I should be happy.” He wasn’t. He was selfish.

Rosie got on her hands and knees and crawled closer. She touched her jaw. “Da.”

“I haven’t shaved, yeah.” He sat up, careful not to knock her over. “I’ll stop talking about her now. I should be focusing on you. You like that bear?” he pointed to it.

She turned around and grabbed it by the arm, showing him.

“I guess I’ll have to find old videos of Winnie the Pooh to show you.” As his eyes briefly went over the toy, something stood out. He did a double take, and on the toy’s bottom, there was a small tag. Thinking that he should cut it, just in case it was a choking hazard, John took a closer look at the tag, only to see faded letters in what looked like marker. He squinted. It was hard to see, but he grabbed the toy and held the tag up to the light. Faded and muddled, John was just barely able to make out _Sherlock_. This was his? John never remembered this around the flat...did he go back to his parents’ house to get this?

John gave the bear back to Rosie, his heart full. God damn it. Why did Sherlock have to be so kind?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really don't know how much longer this will be, but I'm having fun, so I hope you're all enjoying this~  
> Oh and Sherlock did have a reason for the mood shift at the end lol, I'll explain later.


	6. Texting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is kind, and Irene won't leave him the bloody hell alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, sorry for the kind of late update, but I'm back in school again.  
> Enjoy~

John was sure that he was still groggy, so he rubbed his eyes and looked at his laptop’s screen again. He received an email from a Doctor Verner, asking if John was selling his practice, and that if he were, Verner was prepared to buy it at its highest potential asking price. This was completely unexpected. John hadn’t put his practice up for sale, and was planning to go back to work soon...but if he got money from selling the property, maybe he wouldn’t have to go back to work after all? He was only going to go back for financial reasons, and if he received a sum substantial enough to support him and Rosie until he and Sherlock took a high-profile case, then maybe this was for the best. He would rather be going on cases with Sherlock than working, anyway. He felt better suited for running around London with Sherlock than giving some bloke a prostate exam.

This was still weirdly out of nowhere, though, and considering the amount of enemies he and Sherlock made over the years, it felt like a trap of some sort. He forwarded the email to Sherlock, asking him if it were suspicious.

“I see nothing suspicious,” Sherlock’s reply read. “I had my brother gather information on this doctor and he saw nothing awry, either.”

Sherlock’s reply to his email was quicker than John expected, especially since he supposedly asked Mycroft about this. John’s skepticism was not diminished. He decided to call him up.

“John, hello,” Sherlock picked up the phone on the second ring, sounding a little surprised.

“You really don’t think there’s anything weird with this email?” John asked, staring at the original message on his laptop screen.

“No, no,” Sherlock replied. He sounded too casual.

John frowned. He wished he could see Sherlock’s face right now. “It sounds like you’re lying.”

“Why would I be lying?” he asked. “I wouldn’t advise you to do something potentially dangerous, or even simply unwise.”

“Except that time you drugged me a whole Wednesday, apparently.”

He sighed. “That was in a safe, controlled setting, John. You were never in any danger.”

John shook his head and got back on topic. “Anyway, how did Mycroft look up this person so quickly?”

“Who knows what his processes are?” Sherlock muttered.

John wasn’t the smarter person in this conversation, but he knew Sherlock for years by now. “You’re still lying. What is it with this doctor? I didn’t even intend to sell my practice.”

“Would you sell it?” Sherlock asked.

“Uh, I dunno,” John rubbed his eye with his knuckle. “Depends on how much. I need money, but I’ll still need a source of income.”

“Well, I’m sure my inbox is bursting,” Sherlock said confidently. “I haven’t looked solely because the temptation to be on a case again is strong enough as it is, but people are still reeling from the truth about Culverton. I’m sure that case has only boosted our profile, so we’ll be able to find more lucrative cases.”

It seemed like Sherlock knew exactly what to say. John had a realization, similar to when he discovered Sherlock was the one who locked him in the lab on the Hound case. He sighed. “Oh, it was you.”

“What?”

“You set up--whatever this is,” John waved his hand at his computer screen.

“Why would you think that?” Sherlock asked quickly.

“Because it’d be too much of a coincidence for some random person to ask if I’m selling my practice right when I’ve been thinking about opening up again, and after I told you I need money, and I’m beginning to doubt you even called Mycroft about this.” John may have fallen for some of Sherlock’s plans in the past, but he wasn’t an idiot. If anything, Sherlock was off his game. Why was he doing this? “Is Doctor Verner even a real person?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, sounding defeated and quieter. After a long pause, he admitted, “He’s a cousin.”

“A cousin?” John rubbed his eye again. This was a weird morning. “I didn’t even know you had a cousin.”

“A distant cousin,” Sherlock clarified. His voice was strained.

“Sherlock,” John said tiredly, “just tell me what’s going on.”

“You need to provide for yourself and Rosie, you said it yourself. You said you were only going back to work for this reason, but if you received money from selling your practice, then that would be enough for you two until we find a new case, and even beyond that,” he explained quickly. “You won’t have to keep Rosie in daycare if you don’t have a day job, as well.”

John shut the lid of his laptop, a twinge in his chest. “Did you...contact a distant cousin to buy my practice so we could go on cases again?” Was that why he ran out the other morning, to arrange this?

Silence.

John felt touched, licking his lips. Sherlock wanted him back on cases that badly? He had been fine with John working before, but then again, they lived together back then. He worked while living with Mary, but he had a feeling Sherlock hadn’t been pleased about that for a variety of reasons. “Well?”

“My apologies,” his voice came through the phone quietly, nervously. “I shouldn’t have assumed you would be all right with this without being consulted. I did it wrong--”

“No,” John cut him off, “no, well, yes, most people don’t do this, but no. It’s--really all right.” He cleared his throat.  _ Do you want me with you? Do you want to share that part of our lives again?  _ “It’s a good idea.”

“It is?” he asked hesitantly.

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

“Right. But Rosie really should learn how to interact with other children, so I’m not pulling her out of daycare.”

“Fine,” Sherlock conceded with an annoyed sigh.

“Um, how did you get your cousin to agree to this?”

“Long story short, he owes me,” Sherlock said with a hint of humor.

“Do I want to know?”

“Not really.”

“Okay then. He’s seriously willing to buy my practice, though?”

“Yes, he is. As I said, you and Rosie should be set for awhile, and I will try to take on more cases that will result in pay, even if we have to find some wealthy old woman’s jewelry or something equally atrocious and tedious,” he said in disgust.

John chuckled a little. “Thanks, Sherlock. This is, erm, this is very nice of you.” He wanted to tell him how desperately he wanted to go on cases again and for things to feel  _ normal  _ between them. The Culverton case was an important one, but nothing was normal about it, especially not their relationship. If John couldn’t have him, body and soul, he wanted things to be the way they were before as much as possible.

“Don’t mention it,” Sherlock dismissed him. “It’s nothing.”

“No, it’s something,” John countered. “It’s considerate.”

There was a shuffling sound on the other end of the phone. “What are friends for?” Sherlock asked lightly.

John wanted to go deeper. He wanted to tell him how much it meant that Sherlock was doing this, but then again, he wanted to go on cases again for a much different reason than Sherlock. He wanted to spend time with the man he loved again. Sherlock just wanted to spend time with a friend again. John kept his thoughts unvoiced. “When can this all be worked out?”

“Probably by the end of the month. You may know the truth behind the situation,” he said with a grumble, “but you’ll still have to contact my cousin.”

“Yeah, yeah ‘course. Um, when do you think you’ll--we’ll--start taking cases again? How do you feel?” This had the potential to be an uncomfortable subject, but he wouldn’t let Sherlock work until he was well.

“By the end of the month,” he said. “I feel fine, but I know you won’t allow me to work before then.”

John smiled. “You’re right.”

There was a muffled sound on the other end of the phone. It sounded like a female voice.

“In a minute,” Sherlock said distantly, probably covering his phone with his hand.

“Who’s that?” John asked, but he knew.

“Irene,” Sherlock replied. “She bet she could solve a cold case from my files before I could and I intend to prove her wrong.”

He remembered how those two would share deductions, the impressed smirk on Sherlock’s face back then when John couldn’t help but interrupt them by blurting out his middle name. Their co-deducing was more like an odd, flirtatious dance, and this time, they were alone in the flat together. John felt the warmth that had been ignited by Sherlock’s transparent scheme snuffed out like a candle in the wind. “Sounds fun,” John said sarcastically.

“Mmm, yes and no,” Sherlock said absentmindedly. “I should let you go now.”

“Yeah, bye,” John’s shoulders sagged.

“Goodbye.” Sherlock hung up.

John put his phone next to his laptop on the kitchen table and leaned back in the chair, and tilting his head towards the ceiling, sighing loudly. “Will  _ she  _ have input on our cases?” he asked aloud. “I bloody hope not. No,” he reasoned with himself, “Sherlock likes to take all the credit during cases. But. She’s an exception, isn’t she?” God, the thought of her offering input while they worked on cases nauseated him.

John sighed. No use dwelling on that now.

* * *

They didn’t talk for a few days after that, until John decided to bring up the Winnie the Pooh toy. It was Friday and Rose was in daycare, and John had to admit that he was a bit bored without her around and with nothing to do for the time being. He knew that it was better for her to interact with other children, but he found himself missing her. John thought about having a drink before sending the text, but stopped himself. He didn’t want to get back into old habits.

So. Winnie the Pooh.

While John waited for a reply, he held the toy in his hands. It was clean, but was clearly worn. He imagined a small boy with a mop of curls and striking blue eyes holding this bear. If he ever got the opportunity, John had to ask Sherlock’s mother to see his childhood photos.

_ Winnie the who?   _ Sherlock responded a minute later.

John rolled his eyes.  You know who I’m talking about.

_ I don’t know any Winnies or Poohs. _

The tag on the toy has your name written in marker.

The reply took longer this time.  _ I thought it faded away. _

Not enough, apparently. So it was your toy.

_ It was something I found amusing until I developed enough brain cells to spend my time more productively. _

How productive could a child’s time be?

_ John. I’ve always been a genius. _

A genius who likes a little yellow bear.

Once again, his reply took more time.  _ My mother was the one who saved it. She kept it in my old childhood room. I stopped playing with it more than thirty years ago. _

John now had the intense desire to see that room.  You still went and got the toy from your parents.

_ I thought Rosie would like it. _

She does. It’s her favorite toy.

_ It is? That’s pleasant to hear. _

John could picture the forced calm, cool expression on Sherlock’s face, and he was getting a kick out of this conversation.  You liked it so much that you gave it to her.

_ John, why does this matter? _

Oh, John could  _ hear  _ the exasperation coming through the phone screen. He laughed, imaging the indignant pout that had to have been on Sherlock’s face right now.  Because it’s cute. 

John sent the message before his laughter subsided and he could pay attention. He froze and stared at his phone. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. That was never a word he used to describe Sherlock, and he absolutely knew that was not going to go unnoticed.  _ Fuck.  _ His heart hammered in his chest. What was wrong with him? It was a simple, vanilla word and yet his stomach was quickly contorting into knots. He dreaded Sherlock’s reply. “It’s just one fucking word,” John said under his breath, squeezing the arm of the sofa. “It’s not a big deal.” He didn’t believe his own words and he knew it. When a full ten minutes passed without a reply, John only grew more uneasy, and decided that Sherlock not responding was definitely worse.

Thankfully, two minutes later, his phone buzzed.

_ I don’t see how.  _

It took Sherlock that long to type out three words? But, he didn’t seem upset. John was absolutely not going to explain how it was cute, he didn’t want to push his luck, so he just said  We can drop the subject if you want.

He didn’t get a reply for the rest of the night.

* * *

Sherlock’s cousin was polite enough, and they were able to work things out over a couple phone calls. It seemed like all of the details were worked out beforehand when Sherlock was planning this. John couldn’t complain.

“Let me ask you an honest question,” John said over the phone. “Do you actually want to do this, or is Sherlock forcing you?”

“Well, a little of both,” he laughed lightly. “It would be nice to work in London, I’m sure I’ll get more clients that way, but Sherlock was pretty adamant that I do this.”

“He said you owe him a favor. What exactly--”

“You don’t want to know,” he said, echoing Sherlock.

John shrugged. “All right, then. It’s none of my business.” And as long as things went well and he could start working with Sherlock again while having some money to start out with, he didn’t care.

“Aside from that, I’m glad to help out. I’ve heard stories about you from Sherlock and Mycroft.”

“Mycroft?” John asked in surprise. “Mycroft has talked about me?”

“Yes, whenever Sherlock comes up in our conversations. He said you’re good for him.”

John cleared his throat, thinking of the past year. “Well. I try. I don’t always succeed.”

“Look, I’ve obviously known my cousin a long time; if Sherlock gives enough of a damn about you to do this, then I say you’ve succeeded.”

When he put it like that, John couldn’t argue.

* * *

It was uncomfortable texting Sherlock after that awkward exchange John dubbed in his mind as the Winnie the Pooh Night, but he said:  Hey, just letting you know I worked it out with your cousin. Everything should be settled by the end of the month, You planned it out so everything would be done by the time we went back to work, didn’t you?

_ Excellent, and of course I did,  _ Sherlock replied.  _ I’m an exceptional planner.  _

Well, he was bragging, so maybe he wasn’t still weirded out by John’s text from the other day.  Of course you are.

Their conversation ended there, but John felt a little better.

* * *

Until the next morning.

It was nearing ten on Sunday. He had already been awake for hours and he was reading to Rosie when he got a text. “Hold on,” he told her, reaching over and grabbing his phone from the other end of the sofa.

**When are you going to stop denying you’re a couple?**

John’s heart dropped into his stomach, and then another text appeared.

**Before you have a conniption, it’s Irene.**

John let out a harsh, shaky breath. “Rosie, we’ll finish this in a few minutes. I’ll turn on the telly for you.” He sat her in front of the television and turned on cartoons, ignoring her confused grunts for the time being. “Just watch the talking yellow sponge for a few minutes like a good little girl,” he muttered as he adjusted the pillows behind her.

John sat back on the sofa and furiously typed on his phone.  Don’t talk to me. I want nothing to do with you. How do you have Sherlock’s phone again anyway?

**Easy. He’s still asleep and I’m bored.**

John’s stomach churned. Maybe she just took the phone from Sherlock’s room, or maybe they were  _ sharing  _ his room... Whatever. Stop talking to me. We’re not a couple.

**I see you called him cute the other day.**

Shit. What, did she scroll through their conversation just to see if there were something she could use to torture him? She had no sense of privacy. In that way, John supposed she was similar to Sherlock.  God forbid a man joke around with his mate.

**Considering how you two act towards each other, I don’t think it was a joke.**

You don’t fucking know me. I told you to stop talking to me.

John decided that he would do exactly that. Fuck it. Fuck her. She was clearly trying to mess with his head. He left his phone on the sofa and sat down next to Rosie, ignoring the buzzing. “Want to read some more?” John asked her.

Rosie’s light eyes were focused on the screen and she was sucking her fist. When John tried shutting it off, she started crying, so he turned it back on with a shrug. He sat there with her for ten minutes, and when the show was over, he took a risk and got his phone.

**Fine, Dr. Watson. But you still haven’t changed a bit, despite the child and deceased wife.**

What the hell does that mean?

John immediately slapped himself in the forehead. Damn it. He was supposed to be ignoring her. Did she know just how to get to him, or was he hot-headed? He swallowed. Considering his actions throughout recent months, it was probably the latter more than the former. But still, for her to bring up Mary again--fuck, she was aggravating. 

Rosie slapped her chubby hand over her own forehead, staring at him.

“No, love, don’t do that,” John muttered absentmindedly, waiting for Irene to explain herself.

“Ba,” she smacked her forehead again.

“Rosie,” John sighed, “you’re not helping.” She was preventing him from getting too angry, though, so that was a plus.

Her reply came.  **You’re in denial just like you were last time. I’ve read your blog, including your recent entries. You like him more than I do. You always have.**

It was true, of course. The only purpose this conversation seemed to have was to rub her-- _ intimacy _ \--with Sherlock in his face. She was gloating. John took a deep breath through his nose.  Like I said, you don’t know me. You don’t know us or half of what we’ve been through.

**It doesn’t matter what you’ve been through. Despite being a father and widower, you still went back to him.**

John’s fingers tightened around his phone. Bile was sloshing around in his stomach.  Now I’m being serious and will stop replying to you. Don’t text me again. I have better things to do than talk to someone like you.

John silenced his phone completely and picked up the children’s book with shaking hands. “Where were we, Rosie?”

 

That night, when John went to plug his phone in to charge, he saw he had unread text messages, but some were from Sherlock himself.

Sent at 10:20:  _ John, I’m sorry. I just woke up and saw her with my phone. _

The wording implied that Irene was definitely in the bedroom with Sherlock when he awakened. An unpleasant shiver went through John’s body.

Sent at 10:51:  _ I read what she wrote. I’m sorry she said that. You’re right, she doesn’t know you.  _ Sent at 11:07:  _ Don’t listen to her. _

Sent at 12:34:  _ John? _

Sent at 2:05:  _ I’m keeping my phone where she can’t access it while I sleep from now on. _

Sent at 2:06:  _ I hope she didn’t make you too uncomfortable. I yelled at her, for what it’s worth. _

Sent at 2:13:  _ You’re probably angry at me for not controlling her. Sorry. _

Sent at 4:26:  _ I don’t know what she wanted from you or what she gained from this. I’ve been ignoring her all day and she’s just rolled her eyes at me. _

John looked at the various times, and with dread descending into his gut, realized Sherlock must have seen his whole conversation with Irene.  Sorry, I put my phone on silent after I sent that last text. I’m just seeing all of this now. 

He plugged his phone into the outlet, but the cord was able to reach to his bed, so he got under the covers. His heart was beating quickly. He was screwed. She outed him. She knew Sherlock would see this. She probably got caught on purpose; she was smart enough to do something like send a few texts in secret. He felt queasy from nerves.

_ I see. How are you feeling with all this? _

John couldn’t say “like I’m going to throw up because you probably know I have feelings for you.”  How do YOU feel?  he countered.

_ Angry at her for overstepping, but fine otherwise,  _ Sherlock said.

He did seem normal...maybe he believed John’s protestations to Irene.

_ You still haven’t answered my question,  _ he said before John could type out a response.

I’m angry that she contacted me at all, but especially because she was just being an arse.  The sickly knot in his stomach was unwinding a little bit. Maybe he was in the clear.

_ As I said, she won’t have access to my phone anymore. _

Good. I don’t know what she was trying to do.  Maybe that last part was too much denial, or maybe it was just enough. God, he didn’t know. His head hurt.

_ She enjoys toying with people; it was her profession. Don’t listen to her. As you correctly stated, she doesn’t know you or our friendship. _

As the knot in John’s stomach unwound, a weight descended on his chest. He should have been happy that he wasn’t found out, but instead he was disappointed by how nonchalant Sherlock’s tone seemed to be. He must have truly thought of them as just friends. He had overheard his initial conversation with Irene all those years ago, when she first accused them of being a couple. Sherlock’s phone had chimed, revealing that he was listening nearby. He heard the whole thing, and yet never brought it up. It must have been because he didn’t feel the same. It had to be, so he was now writing off clues of John’s feelings. Sherlock may have been a genius, but he was able to ignore things he didn’t want to hear, just like everyone else. After all, he blinded himself to the truth about Mary for a long time. It must have been easier to convince himself that John’s feelings were platonic, especially if he were involved with Irene somehow, some way.

John didn’t feel like talking anymore.

Exactly. Look, don’t worry about it. It’s all fine. Goodnight.

_ Goodnight. _

John put his phone on his bedside table and let out a frustrated groan into his pillow. Although Sherlock arranged for John to be able to work with him again, their dynamic still wasn’t right, and she was to blame. She wasn’t allowing them to even try to become normal again. Instead, their relationship was in the odd, uncomfortable phase, where it seemed like they both wanted to spend time together, but had her presence hanging over their heads. It was like every conversation they had lately was starting off on the wrong foot. John didn’t like it. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in case you don't know, the original Holmes had a distant cousin purchase Watson's practice after his return from the Fall, so I decided it was a nice way for John to get out of going back to work while expressing Sherlock's desperation to have John back in his life.  
> Honestly, I don't think there will be much more to this story. I think the next chapter will be the breaking point of the tension.


	7. A Breaking Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John pushes Sherlock over the edge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An alternative title for this chapter would be "The Big Emotional Confrontation Chapter That Appears in All My Fics" lol

John almost choked on his coffee when he opened up a text from Sherlock to reveal a picture of a dead body.

Jesus, Sherlock! Wtf?

_Don’t use text slang in our conversations, John,_ was his only reply.

You’re not going to explain the picture of the bruised corpse to me?

_I thought it was obvious; I need your medical opinion. Do you think the bruises on his neck were post-mortem?_

John put down his coffee mug to concentrate. All things considered, this wasn’t the weirdest way Sherlock started off his morning. It had been worse when John had to deal with actual, physical body parts in their flat. He squinted at his screen. I can’t tell from the picture. It’s too hard to see. Where’d you even get this picture? Doesn’t look like it’s from the morgue.

_It’s in one of the cold case files Lestrade gave me. If you want, you can come over to see for yourself._

John couldn’t tell if Sherlock genuinely wanted his medical opinion, or if this were his awkward way of inviting him over to hang out. He rubbed his eyes, looking at the time. He had to drop Rosie off in ten minutes, but then he could swing by Baker Street instead of coming back here. He just hoped Irene stayed out of their business, but considering Sherlock’s apparent anger at her for texting him a couple days ago, maybe she would stay away.

I have to bring Rosie to daycare, but I can come by after. Be there in forty minutes?

_Excellent._

John sighed, putting his phone in his jeans pocket. His heart was still hurting from the other day, when it became clear that Sherlock knew how he really felt, but was simply ignoring it out of politeness--out of kindness--because he didn’t feel the same way. John obsessed over this thought since they stopped texting that night, and it was the only reasonable conclusion he could come to. Sherlock was too smart not to see how pathetic John’s denials were, or how perfectly Irene got to him. He was a bloody genius, and while he wasn’t always the best at picking up social cues, John was too obvious.

He picked up his coffee mug again, taking a long sip. He just hoped that things weren’t too uncomfortable between them today. They always lost themselves in a good case, so this should distract them, right? Nothing like a good corpse to get them into high spirits. He groaned aloud. What the hell was wrong with them?

* * *

When John entered the flat, no one was in the sitting room or kitchen. He looked around, confused. Sherlock’s violin was on the table by the window and his music stand was out, but other than that, there was no sign of him.

“Sherlock?” he called.

“In here,” he responded from what sounded like his room.

John walked into his room and found Sherlock sitting on his bed, laptop out, case files all over the duvet and floor on the right side of the bed. Despite himself, John’s eyes did a quick scan of the room, but he didn’t see anything that resembled Irene’s belongings.

“What are you looking at?” Sherlock asked.

“Just the explosion of case files,” he lied. “Why are you in here and not the sitting room?”

“The Woman was chiming in and attempting to solve the case herself,” he grumbled, typing on his laptop. His curls were falling over his eyebrows, uncombed, and he was in his red dressing gown.

The last time John saw that dressing gown, Irene was wearing it. He shuddered. He hoped It was washed since then.

“So I moved in here,” Sherlock finished his thought. “Besides, I know you’d rather not see her,” he said, looking up from his screen.

“Is she not usually welcome in your bedroom?” he asked.

His brow furrowed. “No. Why would she be?”

John swallowed, standing awkwardly in the doorway. “Er, well, she came out of your room one time I was here. In that,” he nodded towards the dressing gown.

Sherlock looked down at it. “Yes, I remember,” he said, tone unreadable.

“And she took your phone while you were sleeping, so she must have been in your room, right?” So much for today not being uncomfortable.

“Yes, but I assure you I wanted no part in her little game.” He took the computer off his lap and placed it in front of his bent knees. His shoulders moved up and down in an inaudible sigh. “I am sorry for how she--”

“No,” John held up his hand, wanting to diffuse the tension he created. “No, it’s fine. We don’t need to talk about it. Tell me about the case.”

Sherlock stared at him. He blinked and then shuffled some of the papers around on his bed. “All right. If you don’t want to stand there the whole time, you can sit here,” he said as he created a space on the edge of the bed out of the sea of files.

John wasn’t really sure if being on Sherlock’s bed was going to make anything less uncomfortable, but protesting wouldn’t help, either. He sat on the edge of the mattress, turning so he was facing Sherlock and the laptop. Thankfully, the bed was big enough so they weren’t too close. He had only been in Sherlock’s room a handful of times when he lived here, and he never actually sat on his bed.

_It’s a queen-sized bed. Big enough for two._

John mentally slapped away the thought. He was a mess this morning. “Show me the picture of the body again.”

“With pleasure,” he said with a small smile.

* * *

What started with John confirming the bruises on the victim were postmortem ended with Sherlock talking a mile a minute on the phone with Lestrade.

“He did it with the teapot, but his desire for revenge caused him to keep going--”

John just listened to him talk, not even aware of the smile on his face. It had been awhile since he heard Sherlock rattle off a deduction like this--at least while sober. But here he was, health(ier) again and back on his game. He was animated as he talked into the phone, his free hand waving in the air and his bare toes curling in the duvet. John’s smile dropped when he felt warmth in his chest. Staring longingly at Sherlock while on his bed was a bad idea.

“Yes, yes, I know, I already sent a write up of my findings to your email. Do keep up.” He pushed his hair back from his forehead. “Will that be all? All right, goodbye.” He hung up, putting his phone down on the bed. He smiled. “That was nice,” he clapped his hands together. “Unfortunately, it only took us an afternoon, but we’ve had far more tedious endeavors.”

“And cold cases usually don’t take too long,” John pointed out.

“Right,” Sherlock closed the lid of his laptop and put it on the bedside table next to him. He looked around the room. “Hm.”

“What?”

“An disadvantage to solving cold cases at home is having to clean up all the files.”

John snorted, crossing his arms. “I spend every day cleaning up after a baby, and I’m not about to clean up after you.”

Sherlock sighed dramatically and flopped down on the bed. “It can wait. Mrs. Hudson can do it.”

“You can’t rely on her to clean up the explosion of papers in her room.”

“Sure I can,” he said. “She’ll complain and scold me and do it in the end.”

John rolled his eyes. “You’re a grown man. You shouldn’t rely on an elderly woman to clean your room.” He stopped. “God, I feel like I’m parenting you.”

Sherlock chuckled. “Well, you _are_ older than I.”

John reached back and grabbed the pillow behind him. “Don’t make me whack you,” he said jokingly, with no intention to do it. He wasn’t actually a young girl at a sleepover, thank you very much.

Something shifted in Sherlock’s expression and he seemed to tense slightly. “Please,” he said dismissively, “don’t be foolish.”

John went to put the pillow back, but a flash of color on the white pillowcase caught his eye instinctively. He casually glanced down at the pillow and saw something red smeared on it. It was lipstick. He clenched his jaw. This was why Sherlock tensed up. John took a deep breath, his teeth hurting from clenching his jaw so tightly, and while he felt the blood in his veins turn hot, there was a resigned sinking feeling in his chest.

“Mrs. Hudson hasn’t done my laundry yet,” Sherlock said defensively, sitting up.

John pressed his lips together, putting the pillow down. He knew Irene spent time in this bedroom, but something about her makeup smeared on the pillow reeked of sexuality. If she were only sleeping in this bed, then this wouldn’t have happened; he assumed she took her makeup off at night. All the signs were there, too convenient to be coincidental. They were together. “Uh,” he cleared his throat. “It’s fine. I mean,” he smiled tightly, “good for you, eh?” These words were painful to speak. “I told you not to miss your chance with her, so. Good on you. For listening to me for once.”

Then, the oddest thing happened to Sherlock’s face. He blinked slowly, and then his eyebrows and mouth turned downwards slowly, deliberately, forming a scowl. A flame ignited in his eyes, and his teeth were bared. “For _god’s_ sake, John!” he said sharply, shooting up from the bed forcefully to stand on the other side of it.

“W-what?” John asked in confusion, Sherlock’s abrupt change in tone sending a shockwave through him. He stood up, too.

Sherlock looked downright _angry_. The intensity in his stare was almost frightening. “I don’t know how many times I’ve made it clear that women aren’t my area, but apparently that wasn’t transparent enough for you,” he pointed his finger. “So, since I need to talk to you like I talk to Rosie, I’ll break it down for you. I. Am. Gay. Do you understand now?”

John’s heart was in his throat and his legs were rooted to the floor. He was speechless.

Sherlock kept staring at him, and he huffed out a harsh breath, putting his hands out to the side. “Will you really say nothing? Fine! I’ll keep talking. I have no idea why you have always been invested in the idea of me being with Irene, especially when it’s clear that you loathe her. Even in the beginning, you could never stand her, so why did you ever try to push me towards her?”

John swallowed hard, feeling the blood drain from his face. “I...I thought she would make you happy, so--”

“Well,” Sherlock cut him off, “perhaps you should spend less time with your head up your own arse and more time listening to me. When have I ever been unclear about what I want or don’t want?”

Normally, John wouldn’t take that kind of talk from anyone, but he was too shocked to do anything. He wasn’t sure if Sherlock had ever been this angry with him. Where was this coming from?

Sherlock shook his head roughly, visibly frustrated. “I let you talk and talk because our friendship had just recovered, but I can’t take your moronic delusions anymore. You thought she would make me happy? Have I ever given that impression?”

John struggled to speak without stuttering. “But, you were always so drawn to her--”

“And I always told you I wasn’t interested in women or any of that fairy tale romance nonsense you believe in,” Sherlock cut him off yet again, his voice hovering between speaking sternly and yelling.

His words were daggers right into John’s chest. So much was going through his head right now, but there it was; it didn’t matter what Sherlock’s sexuality was, because he wasn’t interested in romance. John had no chance. Anything resembling hope was gone in an instant.

Sherlock’s chest was heaving. “You kept making assumptions about us, about what we supposedly did, and every time I tried to redirect the conversation. I thought you would take the hint. I didn’t think you were this thick-headed.”

“Yeah, okay, I get it,” John muttered, his chest hurting, his stomach churning. “God, why are you so angry about this? I made a mistake, sorry, but I’ve done far worse than assume you wanted to have sex with a woman. Seriously, Sherlock, why are you like this?”

“Because,” he spat. Before he finished his thought, the scowl on his face loosened, and his features turned upset. “Because you’re my best friend and I thought you were the only one who understood me. But I was wrong. To have you insist that I must secretly be heterosexual and that I want to be with Irene made it seem like you never took me seriously. You just brushed off my words, as if I’m a child who doesn’t know what he wants instead of an adult man.” He sighed, the anger in is posture deflating, and his shoulders sagged. “You’ve always built up an idea of me, John, but it’s usually very far from the truth. You’ve done this in numerous ways over the years, but I think I know why you’ve been obsessed with me and Irene.”

John braced for the worst, his hands balling into fists. “You do?” he asked quietly.

There was still an agitated furrow to Sherlock’s brow, but sadness was definitely taking over his facial expression. “Yes. You’ve never been skilled at hiding your thoughts.”

John felt like he was going to vomit.

Sherlock’s eyes flickered down. “You’ve always, so badly, wanted proof that I’m not a machine and in your mind, being with the Woman would be confirmation that I’m not the sociopath you think I am.”

John’s eyes widened. “What?” he asked incredulously. “No, you--no, Sherlock, you’ve got it all wrong,” he held up his hands in placation.  

“Then what is it?” he threw his hands in the air, a bitter smile on his face. “How am I wrong? What are your true motives behind this, then?”

John could hear his own pulse, his palms sweating. To tell the truth would be to confess how he felt, but Sherlock just said he was never interested in “fairytale” romance. He was already so disgusted with him. John could picture telling him the truth, and his expression turning bored and annoyed. _“Oh, John. That’s unfortunate. You know I’m married to my work, and yet again you’ve built up a pathetic idea of me.”_ He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t. His head was spinning.

Sherlock waited for his response, and as the seconds passed by, he grew more disappointed. He was staring at John, but there was no more fire in his eyes. He looked tired. He sat down on the edge of the mattress. “So, I’m right. You wanted proof that I’m human. Well. Sorry to disappoint you.”

John didn’t say anything.

Sherlock shut his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, a pained look crossing his face. “I knew that was how you thought of me,” he nearly whispered.

“No,” John shook his head, his voice dangerously close to wavering. “It’s not true. I know you’re not a sociopath, Sherlock. You wouldn’t react this strongly if you were.”

“I am one,” he said, but his voice was weak and unconvincing, sounding like a reflex more than anything else. His fist was wrapped around the tie on his dressing gown. “Even if you don’t believe that, you said it yourself that I’m not complete as a human being if I’m not romantically involved.”

Damn, John seriously didn’t know that hurt Sherlock’s feelings at the time. He had been projecting, and he knew it. He didn’t feel complete without romance, and he guessed he was wrong for assuming Sherlock would feel the same way. “Sorry,” he said, voice scratchy.

He lifted his face with a look that wracked John’s heart. “I think you should leave now, John,” he said quietly.

He sniffed. He looked at Sherlock, who was hunched over on the side of the bed, eyes glued to the floor. John knew he hurt him, but his cowardice prevented him from saying anything more. An unpleasant tingle rippled down his spine as he walked (stumbled) past Sherlock and out of the room, his throat feeling tight. He got out of the flat and downstairs, but had to lean his arm against the front door and try to control his breathing. He couldn’t walk through London while crying.

There were footsteps on the stairs. “John.”

John lifted his head, gritting his teeth. “What?” he barked.

Irene took a couple more steps down the stairs. “You should have told him.”

John whipped around. “Stay out of my business. I don’t know how you heard all that--were you eavesdropping?--but I don’t want to hear anything from you.”

Irene was standing at the bottom of the steps, hand on the railing. Her hair was down and for once, she was wearing actual pajamas, no makeup on. “I always knew I never had a real chance with Sherlock Holmes,” she pressed on. “I have fun with him, but that’s all. I’m gay. So is he.”

“Yeah, I know, I just found that out,” he said gruffly.

She sighed, crossing her arms. “Just trust me on this one thing--I think you should be up front with him. Trust me.”

John just shook his head, tired of her and her games. He didn’t respond. He turned around and left the building.

* * *

Several hours later, Sherlock’s words were still bothering John. He couldn’t stop thinking about it to the point where Rosie started to cry because he wasn’t paying attention to her. He couldn’t get rid of the cloud which hung over his mind. He truly had no idea that his urging bothered Sherlock. John thought he was only mildly annoyed at the worst, and god, he really didn’t know Sherlock was gay. He felt guilty. If he had known Sherlock were gay, he wouldn’t have made those assumptions. But, he supposed he should have known.

_“Girlfriend? No, not really my area.”_

God, John was an idiot. He really had been so caught up in his own head and insecurities that he ignored what was right in front of him. But it was the false deduction Sherlock made that was getting to him the most. John didn’t think he was a sociopath, and he didn’t think being with Irene would have made him more human. It must have really hurt for Sherlock to think his best friend thought of him as a machine. How could Sherlock ever think he was a sociopath? He cared so much, he always did. He deserved be told that. John said he wasn’t a sociopath, but he clearly didn’t believe him.

He was lying on the sofa, barely watching the news on the television. Rosie was sleeping and he was alone with his thoughts. He wiped his tired eyes. What was he going to do? Sherlock was so angry with him that he kicked him out. That had never happened before. John was awful to him for so long, but today seemed to push him over the edge. John didn’t blame him. Maybe this was just Sherlock finally snapping on him after being treated like shite. Could their friendship recover from this? It had barely recovered since Culverton.

John honestly doubted it. This was his fault. It was all his fault. What if they only worked together as associates and nothing more? What if John just went on cases with Sherlock for the money and went straight home to Rosie every time? That was probably going to happen. He finally blew it.

John sat up on his elbows. He felt like Sherlock couldn’t possibly be more upset with him. If that were the case, then...then there was no point in hiding anymore, was there? Sherlock deserved the truth. John deserved the pain the truth would bring. If telling him what was really going on would make him shut out John forever, then that was his punishment. He knew Sherlock wouldn’t return his feelings, but maybe learning that John did think he was capable of emotion and not a machine, or incomplete, would make him feel less insulted. John had an obligation to apologize and come clean. With a sick feeling lingering in his gut, he got up from the sofa to find a pencil and paper. He was too much of a coward to face Sherlock again in person or call him, but he could write him a letter. The last letter he wrote Sherlock had been full of rage and misplaced loathing, but this would be different. It would be his confession.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise both of them will explain themselves lol. Sherlock wasn't being entirely honest with John, either.


	8. John's Letter

_Dear Sherlock,_

_The first thing I want to say is that I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m too much of a coward to say this to you in person and have to write a letter, not even an email. I thought about messaging you, but the possibility of you responding to this quickly made me turn to paper instead. I can’t imagine you will have a positive reaction to this, especially because this isn’t the first time I’ve written you a physical letter, I know. I was a coward back then, too, when I took all of my anger at Mary and my failed marriage and placed it on you after her death. I haven’t forgotten the horrible note I wrote you, and I doubt you have, either. But this one is different, I promise. I’m owning up to my fucked up emotions this time. All I ask is that you read this. You don’t have to forgive me, but give me a chance to explain myself. So, yes, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for not taking you seriously when you said women weren’t your “area.” I truly didn’t realize how much my thinking that you fancied Irene hurt you. I would say I wish you’d told me, but it was all there, and I’m just an idiot. You’d told me plainly the second day we met what your preferences are and it was insensitive of me to doubt you, no matter how I thought you acted towards her. You seemed so flippant about sexuality and sexual identity that your anger the other day honestly surprised me, but it was ignorant of me to think it wouldn’t bother you, especially with how I kept on bringing it up and wrongly assuming. That would get to anyone over time._

_But you’re seriously wrong about something, Sherlock, and I can only say it here, where I can’t see the look on your face as you react to this. I’m not the brave soldier you think I am. I never was. You said I have an image of you built up in my head, but you have a false image of me, too. I’ve always been pathetically afraid of this--of us. Well, I think it’s the lack of an “us” that I’m afraid of. A part of me did want you to have romantic feelings for Irene, but not because I thought romance wouldn’t make you a machine or a sociopath. I don’t think you’re those things, in fact, I know you’re not. A machine wouldn’t have held back its contempt for Mary, and wouldn’t have let me be with her because it thought I was happy A machine wouldn’t try to reassure me that Mary loved me--reassure me that I was loved by anyone at all. A machine wouldn’t love my child the way you do. A machine wouldn’t give everything to me, let me wound it--emotionally and physically--and forgive me so easily, too easily. God, you’ve given me so much, Sherlock, and what have I given back to you? Only a broken friendship. I don’t know why you even wanted to repair our friendship with the way I’ve treated you. I don’t deserve you. You’re human, Sherlock, I know you are. I didn’t want proof that you were human. You’re complete without romance._

_I was...projecting. I was projecting because_ I _don’t feel complete. You know me. I’m a romantic. It’s so hard to write this. I write down a few words, get up and pace for awhile, and write another. This is taking so unreasonably long. Even now, every one of my instincts is fighting against this. I think you and I are similar in one respect: we’re both afraid to let ourselves feel. Granted, what we feel is different. I’ll get to that in a second. But we’re two fucked up British men. We’re not supposed to let others see how we feel, are we? But apparently I was more obvious than I thought._

_When Irene texted you on your birthday, the idea that you had someone out there who loved you (or so I thought)...it pushed me over the edge. I yelled at you because I thought you had something I wanted. Does that make sense? It makes sense in my head. You’re a genius, you can figure it out. Once again, I took out all of my internal anger on you. It wasn’t fair. I’m sorry, once more. But anyway, yeah, I thought Irene liked you, even loved you, and I thought you were a bloody fool for not going after her. “What kind of person doesn’t want someone to love them?” I thought. But my longing for someone to feel that way for me was not from Mary’s death, not from my new status as a widower. Learning the whole truth about Mary, that she had worked for Moriarty all along and probably loved herself more than me, hurt. I felt like a moron for marrying someone who would’ve rather married herself, and for falling for every single one of her manipulative tactics. I still do._

_I keep beating around the bush, I know, but I also want you to know where all of this is coming from. The truth is I was incredibly jealous of you for having what I want. I do despise Irene, but I thought you would be happy with her because_ I _would be happy with someone who liked me. Again, projecting, I know, you don’t have to point it out. And--before I get to my main point (stalling, I know), you can’t entirely blame me for thinking you and Irene had something, right? Not when she pranced around naked under your dressing gown or was apparently in your bedroom, for some reason. I don’t get it. Why did you let her do those things if you don’t fancy her? But that’s honestly secondary. My hand is shaking. I’m sure you could tell by my handwriting. I should get a move on. You hate when people don’t get to the point._

 _You said you’re not into romance. Okay. Fine. Nothing is wrong with you for that, but I can’t lie to you. That upsets me. I selfishly wish you wanted romance. I’ve seen how deeply you care for people, but I still wish you cared in a different way. I’m a shit friend. I should support your decisions and in a way I do, trust me, but I know what I want, deep down. It kills me that you don’t love me the way I love you. There you have it. I love you, Sherlock. I wish I could be loved_ by _you. Irene was right when she texted me. She saw right through me. I think the first time we met her in 2012 was what made me realize I’d fallen for you in the first place. She knew then, so of course she knows now.  Listen, I don’t blame you for not feeling the same. I know you don’t feel the same; remember back in Battersea in 2012? I know you were there. I heard your ringtone. You knew I had feelings for you back then. I assume you never said anything for my sake. Thanks for that. But if you returned my feelings, you would’ve said something. Even I can make that deduction. You can’t help how you do or don’t feel, but the same goes for me. I can’t help but want to be with you._

_We’re at an impasse. What’s left for us? I hurt you so much, and it seems irreparable this time. If I can’t fix us, I might as well tell you the truth. I wanted you to be with her because I thought it would make you happy, but even more I wanted proof for myself that you could love romantically, so maybe I’d feel less bad about falling for you. But I can’t stand her or the thought of you with anyone but me. I’m a prick. You deserve to know how terrible I am. I can’t stop thinking about how you’ve done everything for me, but I can’t even put my own fucking feelings aside for your sake. There’s always been an unequal power balance in our relationship. Before you...died, I thought you had the power. I felt like I was always running after you, but I was wrong. I didn’t even know it, but I’ve taken advantage of you for years. I’m rambling, I think. I barely even know what I’m saying anymore. It’s past 4 in the morning now. I haven’t slept at all._

_I’ll stop being a twat and keep explaining myself. I’m thinking about Mary again. The only real reason I was with her was because I wanted to move on from you, not only after you jumped, but even after you came back. Despite my anger, I still loved you when you returned to London and I saw Mary as an opportunity to stop pining for you. I suppose that didn’t make me much better than Mary at the end of the day, does it, if I saw her as an opportunity? I guess she deserved it, but I don’t know. The point is, I rushed to marry her to convince myself I was over you. Of course I wasn’t. I’m not sure I ever will be. I’ve never loved anyone as much as I love you. I’m fucking angry at myself for being such an arse towards you, the person I care about the most. I wish I could go back in time and treat you differently, but I can’t. We both have to live with the consequences of our actions over the past few years._

_I’m truly sorry, Sherlock. For all of this. I can’t say it enough. I’m sorry for everything from our past, but especially for loving you. You don’t want this and I completely understand that. It’s just not who you are and even if you were into romance, I wouldn’t want me, either. I get it. Like I said, I don’t blame you. It just doesn’t make this hurt any less. This is humiliating. You know me and how difficult I find this sort of stuff so you have to know I’m at the end of my rope. I never wanted you to find this out but I can’t take this anymore. I can’t stand the tension between us, or endlessly beating down my feelings for you, but I won’t be able to look you in the eye after this, either. Maybe you’d lie to me out of kindness and say you could delete it, but I don’t think you’d be able to. You’d always know. It would always be hanging over our heads, over every interaction and conversation we’d have. There’s no good option that lies ahead, but it’s probably for the best if we...don’t see each other again. I want you in my life, but not in the way I want. Seriously, what else can we do? Our friendship could never be the same after this alone, not to mention you got so (justifiably) angry at me that you kicked me out of your flat. You won’t have to deal with my idiocy anymore. I can give you updates on Rosie if you’d like._

_...I don’t know when exactly everything went wrong. I would say when you fell, but it felt like you started to slip away from me even before then. I wish we could go back and find the turning point. I wish none of this shit had to happen. You know that I was about to leave you for good during the Culverton case and that was wrong of me. I shouldn’t have wanted to leave you when you were so hurt and vulnerable. But I feel like our relationship crumbling apart is inevitable. It’s as if fate won’t allow us to be fucking normal and happy. Do you believe in fate? Probably not, knowing you. I do. It’s okay, you can think I’m an idiot, I am one. But I think fate brought me to you, but for some reason it keeps insisting we be apart. I don’t know why. But everything just goes wrong anymore. It’s hard to believe life has decided to randomly fuck with us. I don’t really know what I’m saying anymore. It’s so late. Soon enough I’ll have to take Rosie to day care. I’ve been writing this all bloody day and it’s a mess. I guess you’re right, I’ve always been a shit writer._

_I guess I’ll wrap this up. This is stupidly long. It bears repeating: I know you’re a human who feels joy and pain and anger and love (in your own way) like the rest of us. This was never about me wanting to see if you’re a sociopath or not. You own my heart. I just wish I could own yours. I wish I could care for you, hold you...kiss you...make you feel good...raise my child with you...I know I can’t. That stings more than I could say. But still, thank you for all you’ve done for me. Even though I fucked everything up--when we were happy? Those were the best times of my life, and if I had to choose between not meeting you and doing all of this over again, I wouldn’t trade our life for anything. You gave me a purpose and zapped life back into me after Afghanistan, and I’ll always be grateful for that. But I seem to make you nothing but miserable, so go be happy without me. I’ll be fine with Rosie. You don’t have to spend time and energy worrying about us anymore. Go and be brilliant at Scotland Yard again. I want you to._

 

_Take care of yourself,_

_John_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much fun writing this that I started and finished this chapter in one night. I know, John's a dumbass, but Sherlock will be on his way next chapter lol


	9. A Late Night Visitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Sherlock's turn to snap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing the Big Emotional Confrontation Chapters is always so cathartic for me lol

John shouldn’t have been drunk at ten in the morning, but if he didn’t get drunk now, then he had no chance of sobering up in time to pick Rosie up from daycare. That made sense, right? It did to him. He was sitting on the sofa with a beer in his hand and staring blankly at some daytime talk show on the television he hadn’t turned off for days. It was utter rubbish, but he didn’t feel like changing the channel. He didn’t feel like shaving, either, and let himself go for a few days. His stubble was growing into a short beard--he always grew hair fast--but Rosie didn’t like it. She whined when she saw it, so he’d have to shave. Later. He sniffed and scratched at the prickly hair on his face with his free hand. It was just bloody difficult to function these days. He had to for Rosie, but he felt like he had no purpose in life. He would have to get a new job after all, though, and find a new place to live, since he sold this place to Sherlock’s cousin…

He tried not to think of Sherlock, but of course he was the only thing on his mind. Whatever. He had to adjust to the new normal now. He made his bed and now had to lie in it. John went to take another drink from the bottle, but it was empty. He placed it on the cushion next to him and sighed heavily, feeling weary from head to toe, although he did nothing but sit around for days. He looked at the clock on the wall. He had several more hours of doing nothing until he had to get Rosie, and then he had to be semi-functional for her. He would let himself sit there and stare into space until then.

* * *

John was disturbed out of sleep by a bang. He was lying on his stomach, and for a moment he dismissed it ad Rosie, but then he remembered that a one year-old probably wouldn’t be able to make a noise like that in her crib, and if she did, there was probably something very wrong. He pushed himself up on his elbows, fumbling for the switch on the lamp next to his bed, but suddenly, the lights to his room turned on. He jumped up and whipped around, hand instinctively reaching for the illegal handgun he used to keep under his pillow at Baker Street, but he’d gotten rid of that thing for Rosie’s sake, never wanting her to accidentally find it. He was about to severely regret his decision, but he saw that it was Sherlock standing in the doorway to his bedroom, hand splayed on the wall by the light switch.

“Christ,” John cursed, “how the fuck did you get in here? You’re lucky I don’t have my gun, I thought you were a robber.”

Sherlock said nothing, slack jawed and breathing heavily out of his mouth. His other hand was tightly gripping several papers. He looked pale as ever, dark circles under his eyes, hair clearly unwashed and greasy, and stubble was beginning to grow on his face, too. He looked like as he did after Mary’s death and during the Culverton affair.

John seriously hoped he wasn’t taking drugs again, but that thought was secondary. He should have been panicking, he supposed, but he felt like all of the tears in his body had already been shed, and the fear fizzled into nothingness after sending the letter. He was numb. He didn’t think Sherlock could say anything that would surprise him. He didn’t even bother getting up. “How’d you get in here?” he asked tiredly, his chest empty.

Sherlock licked his lips, arm falling from the wall and to his side. He was wearing his coat, but it only became apparent to John now that he was wearing his pajamas underneath, not a suit. It was an odd sight. “Window,” he rasped, but didn’t elaborate. He took an unsteady step forward, squeezing the papers tighter in his hand, making a crinkling sound.

John knew it was his letter. _Great,_ his fatigued mind supplied. _Here it comes._

“You…” Sherlock took another step forward, his eyes wide like a frightened child’s. His face was blotchy and red. He sucked in a sharp breath, his eyebrows furrowing harshly, a deep frown sprawled across his mouth.  “Why do you _do_ this to me, John?” he asked, sounding anguished. “This,” he held up the crumpled letter in his fist. “Why? Why would you ever think this was a good idea?”

John rubbed his eye. “I didn’t know what else to do,” he said honestly. “You needed to know the truth.” He felt so hollow. He couldn’t muster up the energy for anything but resignation.

Sherlock’s jaw trembled. “You’re driving me mad--after all this, you want to leave me?” his strained voice cracked. He walked to the bed and dropped to his knees, putting his hands on the edge of the mattress and gripping it with his free hand, knuckles turning a ghostly white. “Don’t leave,” he bowed his head, shoulders hunched. He snapped his head back up, eyes fierce. “Stop deciding what I do or don’t want,” he hissed. “ _Enough_. I don’t want to move on with my life without you, don’t you get it?”

Okay, John wasn’t expecting this. He was feeling vulnerable, and his hands nervously grabbed the edge of his sheets. “I, I guess I don’t.”

Sherlock’s eyes bore into him for a long moment. He was breathing out of his mouth again, looking sick. “I was lying,” he blurted out. “Your misunderstanding of me and Irene hurt so much that I lied to you. I snapped, but I didn’t mean it. I said it all because I thought you didn’t feel any of this,” he held up the letter. “It was so much easier to tell you I felt nothing at all than to have let you know the truth, when I thought you wanted me to be with Irene for completely different reasons.”

“I…” John’s heart was thumping hard. “I still don’t understand, Sherlock.”

Sherlock stood up, stumbling a little as his knees shook. He bit his bottom lip hard, and his posture was as deflated as a popped balloon. “I’m still a man, John. I have wants, desires, and a past, as much as I tried to shove it all away for most of my life. I thought you were completely uninterested in me, but only interested in getting me into a heterosexual relationship. I thought you would never love me,” he nearly choked out the last two words after a pause. “So I lashed out and told you I have no interest in romance, but I do.” He swallowed. “It was a poor defense mechanism, I can recognize that, I do have some self-awareness. It was all a sham,” he admitted, the paleness on his face being replaced with scarlet. “If I couldn’t love you, then might as well have you believe I could love no one. I do feel, but only for you. I’ve always been yours. I always meant to say it.”

Perhaps it wasn’t an appropriate reaction, but John’s eyes stung and he pinched the bridge of his nose, holding back a wave of tears. “Oh god, I fucked up _again_ .” He should have been thrilled, completely over the moon at what Sherlock was telling him. But he wasn’t. He _still_ misunderstood and hurt him. He was _still_ a fucking idiot. “Shit, I’m sorry,” he hissed under his breath, trying to regain his composure. “Why do I keep doing this? I don’t want to.”

Sherlock sniffed loudly, looking at the letter in his hands. “You were right,” he said quietly, “I did hear you and Irene in Battersea.”

John removed his hand from his face, but he couldn’t look at him. He felt like he was going to vomit.

“I think I should explain,” he said and slowly sat down on the edge of the mattress at the foot of the bed. His gulp was audible. “I wasn’t ready,” he confessed, looking down at his shoes. “I never wanted all this before you. I tried denying that I’m capable of love for years. It frightens me. I pretended I didn’t hear you because of my fear, not because I didn’t return your feelings. The thought of you wanting me--I was so overwhelmed I fled.”

John still couldn’t look at him. His emotions were all over the place but at least that aspect became clearer. “That makes sense.” He licked his lips. “Were you afraid of me and my feelings, specifically?”

“No,” Sherlock said immediately, “just...emotion in general.”

“Oh.” John tentatively looked up at him.

 _“I do feel, but only for you. I’ve always been yours,”_ kept playing over and over again in his head. Was this really happening?

Sherlock was still looking down at the ground. “Do you...correct me if I’m wrong, but were you not afraid at Battersea, too? Of wanting a man?”

John’s face heated and he felt shame. He had never really talked about this to anyone. He hadn’t even talked about it in his letter. “Yeah,” he said woodenly. “I never--I was,” he cleared his throat, “attracted to men before you, but I never acted on it.” He hated this. “Even with my sister, dunno, it’s been hard to admit to myself.”

“But you are attracted to women as well?”

“Yeah.”

“I see. So, you’ve never been with a man?”

John blushed deeper, but knew that he probably meant _been with_ in a more innocent way than he was thinking. “No.”

“Neither have I.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Oh.” John didn’t know what to say. He never felt this vulnerable before. “Was it obvious? You know,” he waved his hand, “my--preferences?”

Sherlock shook his head. “You hide it quite well.”

He let out a quivering sigh. “Well, erm. Okay. It was never easy, you know. Accepting that I like men." He might as well talk about this now, he supposed. He had nothing to lose.

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek. "It was never easy accepting I like you."

"Did you ever like anyone before?"

"No, never," Sherlock said honestly, "which is why I reacted the way I did years ago."

Something didn't make sense. "If you knew I wanted you then, why did you think I didn't lo...love you until the letter?" Christ, this was excruciating.

He was chewing his lower lip. "Well. With the events of the past year, I thought I permanently fell out of favor."

 _Fuck_. "Sherlock--"

"I know," he held up the letter. "You don't have to explain it all again. I understand now." Even so, his eyes remained glued to the floor, despondent.

Great. So he made Sherlock think he fell out of love with him. He'd have to make it up somehow. "But, I’d be willing to tell people about being, you know, bisexual. If it meant being with you.”

“Seriously?” Sherlock whipped his head around.

The light in his eyes broke John’s heart. To think he had this effect on Sherlock and he had no idea for so long. “Yeah. I'm not ashamed of you.” He scratched the back of his neck, still feeling the blush burn his cheeks. “I’m sorry to have put you through all this.” Guilt was tearing at his gut.

Sherlock turned away and closed his eyes for a moment. “Stop apologizing,” he said tiredly. “It seems that our relationship does nothing but go in a circle of apologies that gets us nowhere.”

“Can’t argue with that,” John mumbled. His heart was pounding. “So...you do feel romance? For me?”

Sherlock nodded silently. He turned his head and looked him straight in the eye, his gaze exhausted but unwavering. “I’ve never loved anyone like I love you.”

John put his hand over his mouth as he felt his lip quiver. His vision got blurry. _Stop crying, idiot._ “I can say the same for you,” he said hoarsely.

Sherlock blinked slowly, not smiling. He shook his head as he looked at the papers again. “You said you don’t know where it all went wrong, but I think I do. It was when I was so afraid of my feelings and yours that I began to shut you out and focus on Moriarty. Even before I left you, I was isolating myself.”

“Maybe,” John agreed, thinking back. It was hard to be Sherlock’s friend in those days, when he was consumed with his obsession with Moriarty. “But it’s only escalated from that, and on my part, too.”

“Yes.” He was quiet for a few long moments. His weary eyes met John’s again. “I want all this to stop. Do you want to make me happy?”

“You know I do,” he said, sitting up straighter.

“Then let’s stop all this rubbish. We’re both completely emotionally incompetent--”

Something about that struck him funny, so John snorted suddenly.

Sherlock paused and he smiled a little. “It’s the truth, isn’t it?” He frowned again. He folded up the letter and put it into his coat pocket. He folded his hands on his lap. “Let’s make things clear: I don’t want you out of my life, ever. You’ll never have to worry about me loving anyone else. I want to break this cycle of nonsense we put ourselves through. I’m tired of it.”

“I am, too,” John said. He felt himself coming back to life again, Sherlock’s words and the reality of his feelings finally dawning upon him. “This has been unbearable and I’m tired of hurting you more than anything else.” His palms were sweating. “I wish I hadn’t caused you so much grief.”

“Me, too,” he smiled sadly. “With you, I mean”

“I know what you meant.” He pushed down the sheets and sat on top of the blankets. His heart’s beats were so hard they were painful. “You really love me?”

Sherlock pressed his lips together. “I would never lie about this. You’re my favorite person.”

He always had a sweetness to him that made John’s heart clench. It was true. Sherlock loved him. He felt _romance_ for him. If they weren’t so emotionally exhausted he would have jumped for joy, but instead a soothing warmth was slowly flowing through his veins. Was this what happiness felt like? It had been so long. “Sherlock, I _adore_ you.” The words were unsteady on his lips.

Sherlock’s eyes softened in a way he had never seen before, he mouth moving wordlessly.

John wanted to touch him. He patted the spot next to him. “Come here.”

Sherlock blinked rapidly, and he fumbled to kick off his shoes and take off his coat. In his pajamas now (and barefoot--he must not have put on socks to leave the house), he crawled across the mattress to sit next to John. “Yes?” he asked nervously.

John pulled him into a hug, wrapping an arm around the back of his neck and pulling him close with another arm around his waist. He felt Sherlock tremor and wrap both arms around his back, fingers clawing into his T-shirt. He lowered his forehead onto John’s shoulder and let out a quivering breath. John’s throat was tight and he sniffled. He felt tears leaking out of his eyelids. _God_. He was being hugged by someone who loved him...had this ever happened before? Well, yes, actually--back on Sherlock’s birthday. This was the second hug he had ever shared with him, not counting the one-sided one  at his wedding, and it was one of the best sensations of his life. Sherlock was cold (did he walk here?) so John instinctively held him closer, the arm around the back of his neck moving so his hand was in his hair. They were both breathing heavily, holding onto each other for dear life.

Sherlock audibly exhaled. “You’re wrong,” he mumbled, “you said you’re not brave, but look at you now.”

“Maybe we’re two different shades of coward.”

“No,” he protested, but didn’t elaborate, holding onto John tighter. He was shaking like a leaf.

John held him even tighter, but he was sure he was shaking, too. When he used to fantasize about this, they would have started snogging passionately like in a cheesy novel, but they were too damn emotionally worn out for that. They were frail after all this time. John did want to kiss him, but he needed to hold him more. Hell, _John_ needed to be held more. Their years of tension didn’t end with a bang, but a weary murmur.

“What do we do now, John?” Sherlock asked into his neck.

“I don’t know,” he breathed into his hair. “I’m so--”

“No more apologizing,” he muttered.

“Can I do it one more time?”

“Once more,” he said, muffled by speaking into his neck.

John suppressed a shiver at the feeling of his lips on his skin. “I’m sorry for hurting and misunderstanding you, and trying to leave you. I won’t do any of that anymore. I’ll never stop loving you,” he confessed quietly, “will you let me in? I know you’re nervous, but it’s all right. I am, too. I’m terrified of us.”

Sherlock lifted his head, still hugging him. “We can do this,” he murmured, voice low and rumbling. Their faces were close enough that John could feel his breath on his cheek. “We know the truth about each other, yes?”

“Yeah,” John whispered, feeling his face heat, trying to keep his eyes on Sherlock’s and not his lips.

“I suppose I should apologize, too,” Sherlock’s voice lowered further. “I’m sorry for not telling you the truth about how I felt about Irene sooner. I understand now that I was giving mixed messages. I simply didn’t think you felt this way. I didn’t think her idiotic flirtations mattered, and if I saw a sign that you felt more for me than friendship, I pushed it away out of fear of being terribly wrong. There. _Now_ we know the truth about each other.”

“I understand fearing being wrong about love, trust me,” he said with a small self-deprecating grin.

Sherlock didn’t smile, but his gaze grew even softer. “You never had to worry about rejection,” he whispered. His cheeks were flushed.

John’s heart was about to burst. “Neither did you.”

It was his turn to give a self-deprecating smile. “You have to admit, John, that my fears weren’t unfounded. I’m not an easy person to love.”

“Of course you are,” he insisted. He guided Sherlock’s head to his shoulder again, a shiver going down his spine, needing to cradle him. “I fell in love with you almost instantly.”

Sherlock allowed himself to be embraced, breathing deeply, his back moving up and down in John’s arms. “Oh,” he said softly.

They didn't know how long they sat like that, the only sounds in the room their quiet breaths. It had to have been late, and the warmth of his body and breaths on his neck was making John tired. He started to absentmindedly stroke his curls, thinking to the day when Sherlock held him to his chest. He hoped he would get to feel that again, but didn’t feel comfortable enough to ask for being held.

“When’s the last time you’ve washed your hair?” John asked, breaking the silence.

“Two days ago,” Sherlock mumbled, “before I got your letter. When’s the last time you shaved?”

“When I wrote the letter.”

“That’s what I thought.” He lifted his head, blinking blearily at him. He cupped John’s jaw with his thumb. “You should shave.”

“So should you,” he touched Sherlock five o’clock shadow.

“Tomorrow.” His eyes glanced at the clock behind John. “Later today,” he amended.

“What time is it?”

“Half past two.”

“God,” John let go of him, “what made you come here this time of night, anyway?”

Sherlock let go of John. “I kept thinking of what to do, but couldn’t come up with anything. My mind snapped and I came here.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed. “It’s late, though. I should let you sleep.”

“Where are you going? You can’t go back home at this time of night.”

“I wasn’t going to; I was going to your sofa.”

John pressed his lips together. “Just...just lie down here.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

“Yeah. I mean. Why not?”

Sherlock scrunched up his nose. “Didn’t Mary used to sleep here?”

John groaned. “Why’d you ruin the mood?”

Sherlock smirked. “Well. That was quite some time ago. I suppose I can manage.”

“What a martyr you are.”

Sherlock went under the blankets, casting nervous glances towards John.

John shut off the lamp, determined to ignore the anxiety in his chest and just try to let things be normal for once. It was just sharing a bed. They loved each other, right? This would be fine. He lay down on his back, aware of Sherlock’s eyes on him.

Sherlock was lying on his side, facing him. “John?” he asked into the darkness.

“Yeah?”

“Aren’t we supposed to...do something physical now?”

 _Oh god._ “Why do you think that?”

“Isn’t that what’s supposed to happen? People become lovers after confessing their feelings?” He sounded lost.

“Do you _want_ to do anything tonight?”

A pause. “I’m rather tired…”

“So am I.” He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. He turned his head, making out Sherlock’s features in the dim moonlight from the window. “We can just, relax, you know? Take our time.” As much as he desired Sherlock, he was apprehensive. He dreamed about touching him, but to actually have sex with him? _God, don’t get hard now,_ John mentally scolded himself.

“Okay,” Sherlock said.

“You sure?”

“Yes. But, can I--?”

“Hm?”

Sherlock shifted, leaned over, and pressed his warm lips against John’s stubbled cheek. It was quick and he lay back down, his nervous energy palpable.

A kiss on the cheek had never lit such a fire in John’s heart before.

“I just wanted to do that,” his deep voice shook.

“I’m glad,” John whispered, turning over and lying on his side. He thought of kissing him on the lips now, but he could also see how large and worried his eyes were. Not right now, not tonight. They both needed to calm down and breathe for awhile. John slid his hand on top of Sherlock’s on top of the mattress. “C’mon, in a few hours Rosie will be crying. Let’s get some sleep. I think we both need to relax.”

Sherlock’s hand twitched under his. “I never actually shared a bed before.”

Something about the rumble of his voice in the dark made this feel even more intimate.  “It’s no big deal. I don’t bite.”

He sighed. “You’re making my guard come down completely tonight, aren’t you?”

“Apparently.”

“This feels a little strange.”

“This whole night has been strange.”

“True.”

His thumb stroked over the soft skin of his hand. “Just relax. You don’t need to sleep if you don’t want to. Just stay,” he whispered.

“All right.”

John closed his eyes. He knew how Sherlock felt; sleep could be a private thing, but after being in the army and sharing a bed with a woman he disliked for so long, he didn’t have much of a problem letting his fatigue win over his body. Besides, having the presence of someone he actually cared about in his bed was nice. He was pretty sure Sherlock was still awake, but his breathing was light and regular enough to be soothing to John. As much as there was still a nervous energy fluttering between them, they weren’t despairing anymore, and not being miserable was enough for John’s tired body to relax enough to sleep.

The last thing he felt before exhaustion overcame him was Sherlock’s large, warm hand turn around and lace their fingers together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of felt like having them make out and have sex in this chapter would have been too rushed? But I'm not sure how I like the end result. They're going to talk more in the next chapter, though.


	10. Transitional

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A morning after, in a non-traditional sense

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm glad you all liked the Emotional Confrontation chapter I always enjoy writing :)

The buzz of the alarm woke John and he blindly slapped the bedside table a couple times until his hand came down on the clock. As he opened his eyes, he heard a soft, deep whine.

Sherlock was lying on his stomach, rubbing his eye with his knuckle.

John was too groggy to really process anything at all, so he just whispered, “Shh, don’t get up, ’s okay.”

Sherlock must have barely been conscious, because he put his hand under his chin and sniffed, not responding or opening his eyes.

His heart started fluttering, but John got up and went to the loo anyway. He had to get himself and Rosie ready in time to bring her to daycare. While brushing his teeth, he thought about skipping the hassle and keeping her home for the day, but then again, as much as he loved her, he needed more alone time with Sherlock. He was tired but his mind was swimming with memories of last night--or, early morning. He was still in shock, really, and while he didn’t feel depressed for once in a long time, he didn’t exactly feel great either. All of this needed to sink in, but for now, it was like shell shock. They agreed to stop apologizing to each other, but John was thinking about the raw look on Sherlock’s face with the letter crumpled in his hand. He had looked absolutely _wrecked_ by the letter, a new and unguarded rawness on his face. John hated doing that to him.

John went into Rosie’s room and got her out of the crib, shushing her cries and changing her nappy. After he was done feeding her breakfast, he got her dressed quickly as possible. Was he a bad father for wanting to get her out of the house as soon as he could? Maybe, he didn’t know, but he couldn’t have been the only parent on the planet who wanted to get the kid out of the house for more adult activities. Would he even do that today with Sherlock? They didn’t even kiss on the lips last night, so maybe not. Whatever.

He got Rosie into her coat and was about to carry her outside, but he peeked into his room. Sherlock was still sleeping, so he left with her.

“Wish me luck today, Rosie,” he told her once they were outside. “If I don’t screw things up, you might have another dad.”

* * *

When John returned, he quickly threw off his jacket and shoes and went back to his room. He was nervous. What if Sherlock was gone? What if he’ll say something stupid and hurtful and ruined them again? Having his love seemed too good to be true. John stopped in the doorway. Sherlock was still sleeping, his arm curled above his head on the pillow, snores coming from under his messy mop of hair.

John watched him for a moment, taking in the sight of the man he loved sleeping in the bed he used to share with the woman who despised them. He sighed quietly, scratching at his growing stubble. He wouldn’t apologize anymore, like he said, but he felt as if he didn’t tell Sherlock enough about how much he loved him. There couldn’t be a shred of doubt between them anymore. He had to man up and make this work. A sickly feeling coated his gut. Well, that’d be easier said than done.

He lowered his eyes to the floor and noticed that Sherlock’s coat was still in the corner of the room along with the letter. He smirked a little. He came here in pajamas and no socks. Ridiculous man. John picked up the coat and placed it on top of the wardrobe. He didn’t know what to do with the letter. He wanted to toss it into the bin, but that wasn’t his decision to make. He couldn’t look at its contents, though, so he kept it crumpled and put it on the bedside table. He carefully sat on the edge of the mattress, gazing at Sherlock with a warm feeling in his stomach. He slowly got back into bed, pulling the sheets up.

Sherlock’s face was relaxed and open, his cheeks flushed pink, but there were still dark circles under his eyes. His unwashed fringe was falling into his eyes. John brushed it out of his face gently. Even though he wasn’t one to lounge in bed, he would stay here and let Sherlock sleep. His presence in his bed was a new but comforting one. He remembered how Sherlock liked to sleep in when he didn’t have a case. He didn’t know why, but he thought it was an endearing quality. It was one of the first real human qualities of Sherlock he saw, just enjoying dozing in bed into the late hours of the morning. He was completely at ease now, and it warmed John’s heart to see him without a shred of worry. He hadn’t seen Sherlock so tranquil in a long time, if ever. He wanted to stroke a finger over his flushed cheek, but didn’t want to disturb him.

John didn’t know how long he lay there until a loud beeping sound came from Sherlock’s coat. Did he have his phone in there?

Sherlock’s slack mouth turned down into a frown and he let out a deep _mmmm_. He blinked his eyes open. His gaze was unfocused and glassy and his lips were parted, but then everything clicked. His eyes widened and his mouth snapped shut. He swallowed audibly, apprehension coloring his features. He lifted his head, looking around.

“I think that was your phone,” John said.

Sherlock nodded. “Probably not important,” he mumbled. He sniffed, turning over so he was lying on his back and sitting up on his elbows. He rubbed his eye with the heel of his palm, looking fuzzy and disoriented. There was a crease on his cheek from the pillow. He was cute.

John licked his lips. The morning after was always awkward--and they didn’t even have sex! What tossers they were. “How are you?”

“All right,” he yawned, voice deep and soft with sleep. “What time is it?”

“Half past nine.”

He groaned and lay down. “Early.” He raised an eyebrow. “Where’s Rosie?”

“Daycare. I just got home a little while ago.”

“Oh,” he looked confused, “was I asleep the whole time?”

“No, you woke up for a second, but I told you not to get up.”

“I thought I remembered that,” he said, yawning again.

With Sherlock awake now, a bundle of nerves was buzzing inside of his chest. It was hard for John to lie still. Everything was new. “Um. So.”

Sherlock rearranged the pillow so it leaned against the headboard, and then he sat up a little. “So? How are _you_ , John?”

John’s fingernails dug into his palm. “Dunno. A lot happened last night.”

Sherlock nodded. “I know. I’m, I’m not sure what to say.”

“Me neither.” But he had to try. _Make him feel good. Come on._ “I was, er, I was thinking that last night, I didn’t say it enough.”

“Say what enough?”

John sat up, willing himself not to look away. “How I, you know, how much I really love you.” _Fuckfuckfuck._

Sherlock’s sleepy eyes softened further and his chest contracted in an inhale.

“‘Cause I do,” John murmured, nails digging harder into his flesh. “I want you to know how important you are to me, and how much I always wanted you.”

Sherlock’s breaths were heavy.

“You, um, you know I’m a romantic, but I don’t think I knew how much or what that really meant before we met.” Was he making sense? It made sense in his head. “You make me feel in a way I never felt before.”

Sherlock reached out his hand and touched John’s. “You should unclench your fist.”

He did. “Are my nerves that obvious?”

“To me, yes.” Sherlock turned John’s hand over and smoothed his thumb over the crescent-shaped marks in his palm. His eyes were downcast. “You don’t have to be so troubled. I want to hear this,” he said quietly. “I know you’ve always found this difficult, but it’s different now,” his light eyes, baby blue in the morning sun, looked up at him, “yes?”

“Yeah,” John said. He’d never realized how large Sherlock’s hands were until last night, but his own was being completely enveloped right now. It was unexpectedly nice. Sherlock’s skin was warm and soft.

As if on cue, Sherlock held his hand a little tighter. “Then you can say it all you want, I won’t bite,” he joked lightly with a self-conscious grin. “Actually, that’s a stupid idiom. Forget I said that.”

“Don’t worry about it, you’re fine.”

Sherlock teethed at his bottom lip. “I think I should be saying these things. I was the one sending mixed signals.” He was silent for a moment. “You know I fear my emotions being my downfall; however, my efforts to close myself off from you have been futile. ...” He trailed off, thinking. “I don’t know when it happened, but by the time I heard you and Irene at Battersea, I was frightened of how much I desired being with you. You’ve drawn me in like no one else, so if you were to take my heart and ruin me, so be it.”

John squeezed his hand. “I won’t let you down anymore--”

“I know,” Sherlock cut him off gently, “I have confidence in you, I’m only saying. The prospect of being with you is worth everything else.”

John sighed. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you. You’re not an easy prize to win.”

Sherlock groaned. “Oh John, must you ruin the moment with cheesy terminology?”

John smirked a little. “I kind of like how irritated that made you. What, you don’t think you’re a prize?”

Sherlock glared at him. “On the one hand, this behavior is an improvement from how you’ve been acting, but on the other, I want to throttle you.”

John chuckled. “What a dilemma.” This was a little more natural. He did always like joking around with Sherlock.

“ _Anyway_ , I’m no ‘prize’ and I know it,” Sherlock said casually.

John had been right about Sherlock needing to receive more reassurance. “Don’t be like that. I told you I fell for you right away and it feels like a privilege to have you.” Heat was crawling up his face and the tips of his ears.

Sherlock looked down at their hands.

“I’m serious,” John insisted. “You know you’ve got your ways, but so do I. I can make a list of all your good qualities.” Maybe he would one day.

Sherlock pursed his lips, his brow furrowing deeply.

“What’s wrong?” John placed his other hand on top of Sherlock’s.

He squeezed his eyes shut. “I spent so long trying to shut all of this down. I wanted this so badly, yet it’s still difficult to hear without feeling the need to run from this,” he confessed with quiet shame in his tone.

It must have been even harder for him than for John, considering he never had a relationship before. John’s heart ached for him, for the man who always felt deeply but berated himself for doing so. “Take it slow. Let yourself unwind.”

“I’m trying,” he said, voice strained.

“I know you are.” He didn’t like how distressed Sherlock’s facial expression was. “I’ve seen the softer side of you, I know it exists. You’ve got a sweetness to you.” His face was burning.

His eyes opened. “Don’t be a fool,” he scowled.

“No, look, you do, and it’ll be easier if you let yourself be that way,” John pressed on.

He deflated, scowl fading. He pressed his lips together tightly.

“Hey, I like that side of you,” John said gently, nudging his arm, “you can be like that around me. You care about people, Sherlock, and that’s okay.”

Sherlock huffed out a breath. “I don’t know how to do this. I want to open up to you, but after nearly forty years of resisting romantic entanglement--well, old habits die hard,” he said with a bitter grin.

John wasn’t the best at giving advice on this issue. They were a mess and needed to loosen up somehow. Maybe they needed a better icebreaker. “You loosened up last night,” he said. “Remember, when you kissed me?”

He flushed, averting his gaze. “Yes,” he said nearly inaudibly. “I remember. But that wasn’t a proper kiss.”

“Do you want to have a proper kiss?” his voice shook.

Sherlock’s hand was sweating in his. He was blinking. A pregnant pause passed. “Yes,” he whispered. Then, licked his top teeth and grimaced. “Do you have a spare toothbrush?”

“Huh? Yeah, but I don’t care.”

“That’s unsanitary,” Sherlock scrunched up his nose and let go of John’s hand, getting out of bed. “You know how much bacteria lies in our mouths as we sleep?”

John rolled his eyes. “Fine. There should be an unused toothbrush in the medicine cabinet in the loo.”

Sherlock promptly left the bedroom.

John shook his head. “Be quick,” he called after him. His heart started beating faster. _Oh god._ He was going to kiss Sherlock Holmes right on that smart mouth of his. He’d imagined what it would be like to cut some snarky remark short with a nice snog, shutting him up and leaving that clever mind blank. Of course, he thought about what it would be like to turn off that brilliant mind for a few minutes through a shag, making the only sounds come out of his mouth be moans as he spread his legs as John--He had to stop now before he got hard.

Sherlock came back a couple minutes later and sat in the middle of the mattress, facing John. He had a determined look on his face. “All right,” he said and closed his eyes and puckered his lips.

John couldn’t help it. He burst into giggles, quickly covering his mouth with his hand.

Sherlock’s eyes flew open and red splashed his cheeks. “What?” he asked indignantly.

“It’s just--people usually start kissing a little more naturally,” he laughed.

Sherlock glared at him, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Sorry,” John stopped laughing (with great effort), “you were just cute.”

The glare remained.

“Okay, close your eyes again.”

He did, still frowning.

John took a deep breath. He leaned forward, tilting his head to the side, and stopped just before their lips touched, feeling his warm breath on his face. Then, his eyes fluttered shut and he slowly pressed their lips together. Sherlock’s lips were soft and plush. John opened his mouth slightly and Sherlock inhaled sharply. He unfolded his arms and wrapped them around John’s neck, clinging to him, kissing back as best as he could. He was unpracticed, but in no way a bad kisser. He was gentle. John pulled back, placed a firm kiss on his lips, and moved back again with a small _smack._ His heart was thumping. Sherlock’s expression was open, his parted lips pink and his pupils wide.

_God, I love him._

John placed a kiss on the corner of his mouth, feeling the stubble tickle his mouth. “Never kissed someone with stubble,” he whispered.

“Neither have I,” he whispered back, voice low enough to send a trickle of heat down John’s abdomen. Sherlock’s hand curled around the hair at his nape. “Can I kiss you again?”

John answered him with a kiss. He slid their lips together and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s slim waist. He thought his idea was working out wonderfully. This felt amazing, and slowly, the tension was melting from their muscles. Sherlock Holmes was in his arms. The love of his life. This...this was really happening. John kissed him deeper, coaxing his mouth open. He brought Sherlock’s lower lip in between his own ever so slightly, not enough to get wet and messy, but enough to suck a little and feel hm tremor in his arms.

Sherlock kept one arm wrapped around his neck but placed a hand on John’s cheek, cupping his face. He tried to mirror John’s actions, but their noses bumped.

“Easy,” John breathed against his lips.

Sherlock just kissed him again. They went on, holding each other and kissing deeper and deeper. John could cry from how right this felt. As he lightly nibbled at Sherlock’s lips, he found himself stroking his hip and realized they had changed positions. Sherlock was lying on his back, both arms wrapped around his neck again, and John was kneeling over him. Damn, when had he done that? This felt like a dream. He broke the kiss, breathing out of his mouth.

Sherlock lay there with his eyes closed for a moment. Slowly, his eyes opened. They were dark and he had a blush from his neck to his cheekbones. There was a crinkle in between his eyebrows. He looked similar to how he did last night.

“All right?” John asked hoarsely.

He swallowed. “Yes. This was a good idea, John.”

“Yeah? Yeah, I think so, too. Sure you’re okay?”

He nodded. He brushed his thumb over John’s stubbled jaw. “No one’s ever kissed me like that.”

John had butterflies. “Their loss.”

That made him grin a little. “I wouldn’t do this with anyone but you.” His voice was thick like honey. His small grin was replaced by a deeper crinkle between his brows. “I...want you, John. I don’t know what exactly I want, but I want to be close to you.”

A loud growl startled both of them.

“Was that your stomach?” John asked, sitting back on his heels.

Sherlock put his hands over his stomach. “...No.”

“You’re hungry.”

“Don’t care, come back,” he reached out to John.

“Nope, if I’m going to start caring for you, that includes making sure you stop self-destructing,” he said firmly. “Up. You’re having breakfast.”

John made toast and a scrambled egg for a grumbling Sherlock.

He ate it while making a face the whole time.

“You know we can just go back to snogging after you’re done?” John asked with a smirk.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and stuffed his fork into his mouth.

“You’re messier than Rosie.”

“When will you go get her?” he asked with his mouth full.

“Three.”

“You keep her there too long.”

“Do you want to kiss me or take care of a baby today?”

Sherlock stopped midway through bringing another forkful to his mouth. “I see your point.”

While waiting for him to finish, John thought of the phone chime earlier. “You want to check your phone?”

“Later,” Sherlock said. “If it were an emergency, they would have called.”

“Who do you think it was?”

“Probably Irene.”

“But it was a regular ringtone, not her moan.” His lip twitched when remembering the sound.

“I changed it,” he said.

“You did?” John raised his eyebrows. “You kept that ringtone for, what, six years?”

“Roundabout,” Sherlock shrugged a shoulder. “After realizing how much you must have truly detested that ringtone, I deleted it. She wasn’t pleased.”

John felt a little smugger than he should have over that. He snorted. “God, to think I thought you were in love with a dominatrix.”

“It was very stupid of you,” Sherlock said smoothly.

“It was,” he admitted. “Can’t believe I thought you two had sex, either.”

Sherlock shook his head with a disgusted frown. “No.”

“How’d her lipstick get on your pillow, then? I’m curious.”

“She liked to get under my skin and tease me. Sleeping in my bed--without me in it, mind you--was one of her tactics.”

“Childish,” John muttered.

Sherlock was absentmindedly twirling the handle of the fork in his hand, staring into space.  He started to look nervous.

“You okay?”

Sherlock’s attention went back to him. “Were you jealous of that thought?”

“What thought?”

Sherlock looked down, suddenly very interested in the crust from his toast left on his plate. “That she and I slept together?”

John licked his lips, blood suddenly rushing to his face. He cleared his throat loudly “Uh…”  Sherlock may have been inexperienced and a tad nervous, but he obviously wasn’t stupid. If he was asking this question, then he had to be interested in sex, right? John hadn’t even thought about that yet. What if Sherlock loved him but didn’t want to have sex? He would honestly be okay with that, but a not insignificant part of John wanted to make love to him. “Yeah,” John answered at last. “I was, yeah.”

Sherlock wasn’t eating anymore, although he stared at his plate. His hands were clasped together on his lap. “The end of your letter...you said you want to make me feel good.” His words were halting and quiet, embarrassment dripping from each syllable. He was red as ever.

 _Jesus Christ._ “Yes,” he said with a curt nod, “I did say that.” He felt like he was going to burst into flames, but going by how deep Sherlock’s blush was, he wasn’t alone. “How, um, how do you feel about that?”

Sherlock was silent, but he was bouncing his knee nervously. His gaze hesitantly rose to meet John’s. “If we try it, but I dislike it, you will stop?”

“Of course,” he said sincerely, a spark of anticipation running through his abdomen and into his gut. Were they really going to do this? Shit, this was huge. He needed to make sure Sherlock actually wanted this; just a little while ago, he was saying how hard this all was for him, and now he wanted to have sex? John folded his hands together on top of the table. “You really wanna do this?”

Sherlock was looking down. He gulped. “You know I’ve never--” he waved his hand.

“I know,” he said softly. “I know now,” he corrected himself.

“Is that a problem?” he asked.

“Not at all.”

“Have you thought about this before?”

John cleared his throat. “Yeah. In the past I tried not to, but you know. Wasn’t easy. I wanna experience this with you, but only if you’re on board.” He truly would be okay with never having sex with Sherlock, but if he had the opportunity to be the man of action he always was and smother him with kisses and bring him to ecstasy, he would take it. “We don’t have to do anything crazy.” He sounded husky to his own ears. “Just kiss a bit.  Hold each other. Touch each other.” He wasn’t completely comfortable saying this, but the way Sherlock’s breaths were growing heavier made him go forward. “Just have a good time. We can try?” he offered, trying to suppress images of Sherlock naked and splayed out on the bed so he didn’t grow aroused at the kitchen table.

“I feared this part, too” Sherlock sighed, his face open and slightly sad, “admitting to myself that I wanted to be in a relationship with you, and felt--desire.” He took a small sip of water, hiding his face behind the glass for a moment. “It was very difficult to come to terms with,” he mumbled.

John reached under the table and placed a hand on his knee. “It was hard for me to admit I was attracted to a man.” It was something he’d never confessed before, not to any therapist. His chest was tight. “But…” He put a smirk on his face, trying to ease the tension. “You’re just that sexy, I guess.”

Sherlock stared at him blankly for a second before snorting and laughing suddenly, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “You’re stupid,” he giggled.

“I’m in love.” John let the tightness in his chest melt away with the deep rumble of Sherlock’s laughter. “Let’s just go to bed and see what happens, okay?”

He calmed down, but his expression was less troubled now. “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yaaaay they're going to have sex


	11. In Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The obligatory sex chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update! But I'm here now with sex

Right as they entered the bedroom, Sherlock let out a short breath passed his lips,

“Okay,” he said, and then started to pull down his pajama pants.

“Woah,” John held up his hands, flushing despite their reason for being in here in the first place. “Erm, that’s moving a little fast.”

Sherlock was gripping his pajama pants, but he paused. “Is it? Isn’t this the endgame?”

“Well...yeah. But there’s usual more of a buildup.”

“Oh,” he let go of his clothes. “I thought this would be easier.”

Technically it would be, but from the redness of his cheeks, John could tell Sherlock wasn’t exactly comfortable with stripping right here and now. “We’ve got time.”

Sherlock nodded, sheepish. “You’re right.”

Neither of them moved.

John didn’t know how to go about this much better than Sherlock did. He knew how to have sex, obviously, but with a man? Well, it couldn’t be _that_ different. Sherlock was still a person with sensitive areas. He had the same body parts he did, and John certainly knew how to touch those. He just needed to get over himself. _Christ, stop being a prat and go touch him._ He walked up to Sherlock, grasped his wrist, and firmly kissed him on the mouth. He fought past the hard beating in his chest and kept kissing him, arm sliding around his waist.

Sherlock put his hands on John’s chest, but was only resting them there, not pushing him away. He was kissing back, a little clumsily, but it was all fine. His mouth was warm and soft, gentle but eager to go along with John’s motions. His hands slowly slid up his body to wrap around the back of John’s neck. It was probably an innocent gesture, but the feelings of his big, warm hands gliding up his chest made John’s breath hitch.

John thought about how, years ago, Irene bragged that she would make Sherlock beg for mercy twice. But he didn’t want to make Sherlock beg and plead for release. He wanted to show him that he really had nothing to be afraid of; the worst thing he could do was convince him that his years of fearing intimacy were warranted. John pulled his face back, breaking the kiss. “Okay?” he whispered.

“Yes,” Sherlock whispered back, and he sounded like he meant it. “Are you?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m great. It’s just, what do you want to do? What are you the most comfortable with?”

Sherlock swallowed, his fingers twitching behind John’s neck. “Um.” He squinted a little, grimacing. “Not...penetration, right now.”

John felt his body immediately break out into a sweat. “Uh,” he brought a hand up to his mouth just in time to cover a cough, “I wasn’t, er, planning on that right now.”

Sherlock was looking down and he put his hands down by his sides, scarlet from his cheekbones to his neck. “Good.”

John licked his lips. “I, um, I don’t even know if I’d have enough lube for that.”

“You have lube?” he asked curiously.

“Well, yeah,” John said. It felt having this conversation with an arm still around Sherlock’s waist.

“Why? Haven’t you been celibate since Mary?”

God, this man was going to be the end of him. “For masturbation, Sherlock,” John said defensively, letting go of him. “You know, it makes it easier?”

Sherlock stared at him blankly.

John scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “Do you, um.” He waved a hand between them.

“What?”

“Do that?”

A look of understanding dawned upon him and he turned his face away quickly, eyes widening. “Sometimes,” he muttered.

“You’ve been doing it with a dry hand the whole time?”

“I manage!” he said hotly, narrowing his eyes.

“Hey, I was just asking,” he said gently. “I’m just saying lube makes it feel better. It’s, um, slicker.”

Sherlock sighed through his nose. “We’re not getting anywhere.”

“No, we’re not. We got off track. Look, let’s keep things simple. I don’t think either of us is up for anything complicated right now. I just want you to enjoy it.”

The fire in his eyes went away. “I know.” He rubbed his jaw, his growing stubble making a scratching sound against his palm. He traced his lower lip with his index finger, a nervous trait John wasn’t sure he was aware of. His voice grew quiet. “Can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

His eyes were shy and his voice was muffled behind his hand. “I’d imagine you behind me--we’re both lying on our sides--and your hand is around me.”

John was almost embarrassed that something so simple would immediately shoot heat down his abdomen and into his groin.

Sherlock’s hand was still over his mouth. “Perhaps that’s enough for now?” he asked.

“God, that’s fine,” John said, picturing it in his head. He could rub himself against Sherlock as he did it, maybe right up against his arse... He needed to touch him now. John took his hand away from his mouth and kissed him hard, squeezing his hand and stepping forward so their bodies were flush up against each other. Sherlock’s fantasy was a simple one, but the fact that he apparently had a go-to fantasy of them together was getting him aroused faster than he would have liked to admit.

“So have you thought of anything else?” John murmured against his lips. “Any other positions?”

Sherlock inhaled sharply. “Yes. I--mmm, John, it’s hard to talk like this,” he managed to mumble out in between kisses.

“Sorry.” They transitioned into open mouth kisses. Sherlock didn’t have much stubble, but it was enough for John to feel on his face. Something about the slight scratch and tingle made him tangle a hand into the curls at his nape and grip tightly. He nipped his plump bottom lip and pulled back when he heard a gasp. “Too much?” he asked roughly.

“No,” Sherlock grabbed the collar of his T-shirt and pulled him close, their lips smashing together, and fuck, that was the sexiest thing John had seen him do so far.

John pulled slightly at his curls and licked his way into Sherlock’s mouth briefly. He wanted it to feel wet and sensual, but not like they were dogs lapping at each other, so he slid his tongue out of his mouth and sucked his bottom lip.

Sherlock’s fingers on his shirt trembled and tightened around the fabric. In a cautious motion, he bean sucking on John’s upper lip, keeping the suction light.

John felt himself getting hard. He pressed their hips together experimentally and was pleasantly surprised to be met with a bulge. They both broke apart, looking down.

“Oh,” Sherlock rasped. “We’re really doing it.” He sounded dazed and in a bit of awe, like he still couldn’t believe this was happening.

“We really are,” John slid both hands down to grasp his thin hips, his voice gruff. He noticed Sherlock’s breathing was a little too fast, so he decided to make him laugh. “Can’t believe I’m touching another cock right now.”

It worked. Sherlock immediately giggled, crinkles forming around his eyes. “Shut up. Don’t act twelve.”

“But you’re laughing,” John teased, smirking and pulling his hips closer. He nosed at Sherlock’s cheek. “And you’re blushing.”

“I never do that,” he muttered.

John trailed his lips down his scruffy cheek and latched onto his jaw line, kissing and sucking and resisting the urge to bite hard into his pale skin. He moved his hips in a slow grind against Sherlock’s as he calmed himself down and switched to pressing sensual, unhurried kisses against the sensitive skin below his jaw. The vibration of Sherlock’s stifled moan against his lips made him throb. It had been so long since John touched anyone, and he never touched someone as sexy as he was. He was always incredibly attracted to Sherlock, enough to have been thrown into a sexuality crisis on day one. But here he was, grinding against him. John finally had him.

Sherlock was getting harder against him, and he was moving his hips a little like a teen trying to hump a pillow, but John found that nothing but sexy. He started pulling John’s T-shirt up.

“Can we take our clothes off now?” he asked, breathless.

John felt him swallow and he trembled. Lifting his head, he nodded and tried to take off Sherlock’s shirt as he tried to take off John’s, and their arms and elbows bumped together.

“Fuck it,” John grumbled, the heat in his abdomen rendering him impatient, and threw off his own shirt.

Sherlock removed his T-shirt and stared at John’s chest.

John felt flattered. He was a little disturbed to see Sherlock still too think for his liking, but he shook it off for now. Besides, he could now see that Sherlock’s pink blush reached all the way down to his chest, and fuck, that was hot and adorable all at once. He grasped his hip again with one hand, his arousal shoving away his nerves. He kissed Sherlock’s collarbone and ran his thumb over his nipple. Upon receiving a tremble, he rotated his thumb in a circle around his left nipple, feeling it harden beneath his skin. John couldn’t help but bite down on his collarbone as his erection pressed against his pants. Feeling Sherlock have such a human reaction to this, while unsurprising, made him hard as a rock.

“Wanna go to bed?” John whispered in his ear.

Sherlock nodded vigorously, his curls bouncing. He took off his pants.

John didn’t stop him. In fact, he copied him.

Sherlock’s lips parted and then quickly pressed them together when he saw John’s dick.

John’s face was hot. “Um. Like what you see?” he joked lamely. He certainly liked what he saw. _Wow. I’m looking at Sherlock Holmes’ cock._

He blinked rapidly and put his hand in front of his mouth, embarrassed.  He wordlessly went to the bed and lay down on top of the covers, looking at him with anxious, expecting eyes.

John’s cock twitched and they both saw it. He cleared his throat. “Pretend you didn’t see that.”

“I don’t mind,” Sherlock said simply.

John cleared his throat again and got on the bed, kissing him soundly to distract from his burning face. Sherlock cupped his jaw, kissing him harder, taking John’s breath away. They pulled apart with a loud _smack_. Sherlock was gazing at him softly, his expression tender.

A lump formed in John’s throat. “Yeah?”

Sherlock’s thumb stroked his cheek. “I’m glad we’re doing this,” he rumbled.

John turned his head and kissed his palm. “Me too.” His heart was thumping.

Sherlock shifted and turned over so his back was facing John. He looked at John from over his shoulder. “Can you…?”

John was starting to leak. “Gimme a sec.” He reached into the bedside table and got the bottle of lube, which was mainly full. He bought it for himself, but had a relatively low sex drive lately. He coated his hand and pressed his body against Sherlock’s, moaning when his cock slid in between his cheeks. “It’s okay,” he whispered when he gasped. He wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s erection, feeling its warmth in his palm. He stroked it from root to tip, slowly. He felt a shudder run through Sherlock’s whole body. He smeared kisses on his pale shoulder, squeezing and stroking in a steady rhythm. In this position, this wasn’t too different from stroking his own cock, so he knew just how to twist his hand and rub at the tip to make Sherlock bite his lip to stifle a deep moan.

John was hardly aware that he was thrusting his cock against Sherlock’s thighs. He realized what he was doing but only thought he needed more pressure, he angled his hips and thrust right in between is strong, pale thighs, groaning. If he’d thought ahead, he would have used lube on himself, but he was leaking enough for it to be all right. Sherlock’s moans and poorly suppressed whimpers were driving him mad. He imagined what that deep voice would sound like while impassioned before, but the reality was better than his fantasies. John nuzzled his nose into the damp curls at his nape, inhaling shakily. He stroked Sherlock faster and moved his hips in time with his hand.

“ _Ungh_ ,” Sherlock tilted his head back, and his hips jerked abruptly.

“Fuck my hand,” John whispered in his ear.

Sherlock did, uncoordinated at first, but his body naturally synced to John’s rhythmic thrusting, and then they were both panting and trembling as slick sounds filled the room.

“It’s,” Sherlock gritted out, his eyes squeezed shut, brow furrowed, “it’s…”

John felt pleased that Sherlock couldn’t even form a full thought. Pleasure was building at his tip and he felt his bollocks pulling up. God, he was going to come all over his thighs. He was pressed up against his hot, lean, sweaty body and was about to completely lose it in front f Sherlock fucking Holmes--

His eyes shot open (when had he closed them?) and he gasped as he came, his hips thrusting erratically and his hand on Sherlock losing its rhythm. “Oh, god!” he wheezed. His cock just kept pulsing and pulsing. He hadn’t had an orgasm last this long since who-knows when. He grunted and bit into Sherlock’s shoulder, and felt hot wetness burst onto his palm, and he practically felt Sherlock’s deep moan in his chest. As he began coming down from his own high, he lifted his head off the pillow to watch Sherlock’s beautiful face smooth out into pure ecstasy, his plush, pink mouth dropping open as another moan escaped his lips. His body shook and he ducked his head down, shutting his eyes.

John let go of him and looked at his hand. Well, he needed a moist towelette. He looked down at Sherlock’s thighs. Oh. He made a mess. Before he could move to get up and grab something to wipe them off, Sherlock flipped around with glassy, wide eyes and threw his arms around him.

John hugged him, their heaving chests pressed together. He swallowed, gathering his breath. “Sherlock?” he whispered.

Sherlock took a few long moments to breathe, simply holding onto him.

John ran a hand through his damp curls, giving him time. His own heart was still beating fast and he felt a little overwhelmed. He’d just had sex with the man of his dreams.

Sherlock pulled back, arms still around is shoulders, and kissed him. He cupped John’s cheek, breaking the soft kiss and gazing at him, an indiscernible look in his eyes. “How did you think I loved anyone else?”

A heavy feeling filled his chest. He knew it was a rhetorical question. His throat felt clogged nonetheless. He placed a chaste kiss on his lips. “I love you.”

Sherlock shut his eyes and breathed out his mouth, dropping his hand from John’s face and grabbing his hand. His eyes flew open. “Oh,” he looked down with a grimace at John’s sticky hand.

John snorted. “You’re disgusted? It’s your own spunk.”

“Don’t call it that,” he whined. He spread his thighs and looked down. “I just noticed this.”

“Sorry about that,” he said self-consciously. He really did come all over him, and as hot as that was, it was still embarrassing. It was their bloody first time.

“You couldn’t control it,” he dismissed. He was still red from his cheeks to his chest, fringe clinging to his sweaty forehead. Still, his blush somehow deepened. “It was, pleasing, to do that with you. To, um, experience that.”

John really wanted to laugh at his awkward wording, but he held it back. “I had a great time, too,” he said plainly. “It was a good idea.” He felt lighter now, and told Sherlock as such. “I think it was good for us.”

“I agree.” A bashful look was on his face. “I’m glad I only ever did that with you,” he said quietly.

“Me too,” John said seriously.

Sherlock chuckled a little. “I know.”

John smiled a little. It felt like a barrier between them was destroyed. They were finally okay. “I’m happy you let me see that side of you. I know it wasn’t easy for you to do.”

He sighed a little. “It wasn’t, but it was worth it. I was resistant for so long, but only because I knew…” He sighed again, looking down at the sheets. “I knew I couldn’t do any of this without sentiment being involved.”

“And there’s nothing wrong with that,” he said softly.

He nodded. “I know now.”

John kissed his forehead. “I’ll be back in a sec.” He washed off his hand and grabbed a washcloth for Sherlock, tossing it to him when he re-entered the bedroom.

Sherlock wiped himself off gingerly and threw it over his shoulder.

John rolled his eyes, getting back on the bed. “You’re picking that up later.”

“Later,” Sherlock repeated.

John felt pleasantly tired. It may have just been some humping, but...no, it really was just some humping. Damn, he was getting old. He even came before Sherlock!

“You won’t have to work,” Sherlock suddenly blurted out. “You and Rosie will live with me once Irene is gone. We can share a room and Rosie will have your old one.”

John blinked. That came out of nowhere, but he wasn’t opposed to the idea at all. “Really?”

“Yes. I’m certainly not moving in here.”

John laughed lightly. “I can’t picture you anywhere but Baker Street. Yeah, we’ll move in. Thank you--”

“Shut up,” Sherlock waved his hand, “don’t thank me as if you belong anywhere else but our flat.”

Confirmation that Baker Street was his true home was something John wanted to hear for years. He cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he said thickly, “you’re right.”

Sherlock blinked slowly. He held John’s (now clean) hand and brought it to his lips, kissing it softly. “We can be us again.”

John’s chest was going to burst. “Sherlock Holmes, you bloody romantic,” his voice cracked.

Sherlock scooted closer so he could entwine his long legs with John’s, grasping his hand. “I’m not,” he dismissed, “I only want to be with you.”

“Still being romantic,” John sniffed, hoping his eyes didn’t look as wet as they felt. They kissed softly but deeply, his hand finding its way into Sherlock’s thick curls again, stroking them. Sherlock emitted a relaxed hum against his lips, and John did this to him. Sherlock was naked and kissing and cuddling in bed, and this was because of John. He felt like he hit the jackpot of life. He imagined Sherlock would roll his eyes and think he was corny for mentally saying that.

“I can’t wait to live with you again,” John breathed, resting their foreheads together.

“I can’t wait for her to leave.”

John giggled. “Yeah, me neither.”

Sherlock turned his head and buried it in between the crook of John’s neck and the pillow, releasing a little breath of contentment.

John wrapped his arms around him, gentle warmth flowing through his veins. “Can you even breathe like that?” he asked, lazily running the sole of his foot against his calf.

“Mhmm,” he mumbled. “You’re warm,” he said into his neck.

John yawned. “You know we’re both getting old, right? A lot of blokes wouldn’t get this tired after something so relatively simple.”

“I don’t care,” Sherlock grumbled, nuzzling into his skin, his curls tickling John’s jaw.

John closed his eyes, amazed that he felt no sadness. They still went through a lot and the current high would fade a bit, but they were truly on the path to recovery, and soon, he would be home again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is definitely the last. Thank you for sticking around this long.


	12. End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tying together loose ends

John lifted his head from the pillow and realized he was alone in bed. He squinted at the neon numbers shining from the clock on the bedside table. He groaned. What the hell was Sherlock doing at 5 in the morning? If this racket had been enough to awaken John, Rosie would probably be crying soon. He sat up and realized Sherlock was on the other side of the room, putting John’s clothes into a suitcase.

_ Um. Okay.  _ He rubbed his eyes. “Sher?” he slurred, putting his head back down on the pillow.

Sherlock whipped around, his eyes alert in the darkness of the room. “Good morning.”

“What the fuck are you doing?” he asked gruffly.

“I figured I would pack for you so you could sleep, but I see that was pointless.”

God, he was tired. “You woke me up, you wanker.”

“Oh. Sorry.” He stilled his movements.

A beat.

“Why are you packing up my things?” he asked.

Even though it was dark, Sherlock’s smile was visible. “You’re coming home with me.”

John knew he wasn’t about to go back to sleep, so he reluctantly sat up. “Yeah, at some point, but why--?”

“Ah, I see the confusion. I mean you and Rosie can movie in tomorrow.”

“What? What about Irene?”

A twinkle entered his eyes. “I told her you’re more important.”

A part of John wanted to get up and kiss him right now, but the other part asked, “Wouldn’t that put her in danger?”

“No, because she’ll move in here,” Sherlock said happily. “I thought of this a couple hours ago. You hate it here because of the constant reminders of Mary, Rosie is too young to have much emotional attachment to this place, and I want Irene out without inadvertently killing her. It’s simple but brilliant.” He was immensely satisfied with himself.

John yawned. “Well...I don’t like it here,” he admitted. “Have you talked to her about this?”

Sherlock unplugged his phone from where it was charging in the corner of the room and handed it to him. “You can read it here.”

_ Change of plans: I have a new location for you. _

What?

_ You’re moving into John’s flat. Don’t worry, you’ll have the place to yourself. _

…

He’s coming here, isn’t he? You’re throwing me out over John?

_ Of course. Did you expect any different? _

You know people are after me.

_ You’re less likely to be found in a small suburban flat than the home of an internationally renowned detective, and you know it. _

You’ve been with John these past few days. That’s why you’ve been ignoring my texts.

_ How observant. _

I guess I can’t call you the Virgin anymore. How sad.

_ Nope. Start packing. _

I didn’t realise being with John would make you into your brother, the Ice Man.

_ That’s not the case. John dislikes. You’ve upset him. I want John with me. So, you leave. You’ll still be safe. It’s simple. You’ll be out before John and Rosie arrive. _

And here I thought we had a special bond.

_ You thought wrong. _

Clearly. In the end, you’re the man I thought you were, I suppose. I knew that independence of yours would disappear as soon as someone had you. You were so predictable.

_ You’re to be at the new flat by the end of tomorrow. I’ll text you the address. _

You won’t even tell me how it was?

_ No. Goodnight. _

John handed him back the phone. “You were blunt.”

“You’re pleased.”

He chuckled. “I am, yeah.”

Sherlock lay down next to him, putting the phone in the pocket of his pajama pants. “I was thinking--she enjoyed toying with both of us. If she ever cared about me, her manipulative streak outweighed it.”

John sighed. “She and Mary really do have a lot in common.”

Sherlock scooted closer. “I suppose they do,” he said softly. He yawned. “I should finish packing.”

“Go back to sleep, you loon. You’re tired.”

Sherlock grumbled but got under the covers, resting his head on John’s shoulder.

“It might take more than a day to get all of my and Rosie’s stuff out of here,” John said, thinking about it now with a more awake mind.

“In any case, you can start sleeping at Baker Street again tomorrow night,” Sherlock murmured. “We’ll put Rosie’s crib in your old room immediately so she’ll have a place to sleep.”

John tilted his head and rested his cheek on his soft curls. “You really want us there, don’t you?”

“Of course,” he nuzzled his nose into his skin.

They had only gotten together a few nights ago, so John still felt a sort of whiplash, but in the best way possible. He felt wanted. He was honestly still chuffed over Sherlock kicking Irene out, too. Maybe he was awful, but he didn’t give a damn. “How long until Irene leaves the country, d’you think?”

“Not long,” Sherlock said. “We’ll be alone completely soon.”

“Except for Rosie and Mrs. Hudson.”

“They’re family. Irene is in a strange category all on her own.”

John snorted. “Sorry, just. I wish I could go back five years and tell myself that this is happening now.”

“Mmm, don’t start reminiscing this early in the morning,” Sherlock muttered into his T-shirt. “I’m too tired.

“ _ You _ woke  _ me  _ up.”

“Now I want to sleep. Goodnight, John.”

“You’re an arse.”

“I’m your arse.”

“I like your arse.” 

Sherlock rolled over. “Goodnight.”

* * *

Moving day was a weird, fast blur, but John was glad that this was happening.

Mrs. Hudson was positively thrilled that he and Rosie were moving in.

“It’ll be just like old times!” she beamed. “Only better, because of this little one,” she took Rosie from John’s arms. “Besides, I’ll be glad to have her gone,” she said in a hushed voice, referring to Irene.

“You don’t like her?” John asked.

“I don’t like the vibe she gives, but more than that, I have no clue what to say to her.”

Irene herself moved into John’s old flat that day, sitting down on the sofa and taking out a bottle of nail polish. As she painted her nails, she realized they were staring at her. “What? I’m not helping you,” she said flippantly.

They rolled their eyes and went back to moving boxes into the truck Mycroft sent for them. 

Irene seemed incredibly irritated, as if she were insulted by the turn of events. Did she think he and Sherlock would never get together? She goaded John via text message about his feelings on Sherlock’s phone, and now she was surprised?

John just had to ask her. “Did you think we’d get together?” he asked when Sherlock was out of earshot. 

She kept painting her nails. “No, actually.”

“Then why’d you do all that crap?”

“Hm?” her icy eyes flickered up to meet his.

“Why’d you try to expose me and my feelings for him on Sherlock’s phone if you thought it would go nowhere?”

The corner of her mouth twitched up. “I was having fun. I liked watching you two dance around each other.”

“You thought our unhappiness was funny,” he said flatly.

“Incredibly,” she purred.

John didn’t have it in him to be angry anymore. “No wonder you got tangled up with Moriarty and Mary,” he said tiredly. “You were all malicious at heart. Even with Sherlock, you acted like you cared about him but you enjoyed making him uncomfortable.”

She rolled her eyes and looked down at her hands again. “Did you think I was actually nice deep down and just needed someone to reach out to me?” she asked dramatically and with disgust.

“No,” he shook his head. “I’ve always known we’d be better off without you.”

She began painting the nails on her other hand.

John decided he was finished talking to her for the rest of his life, and turned on his heel to grab another box from Rosie’s room.

That night, he got into bed in Baker Street for the first time in several years. 

“Finally home,” he breathed, pulling the duvet up.

Sherlock smiled and placed his hand on top of John’s chest. “Indeed,” his voice rumbled. 

He turned his head on the pillow and started kissing him softly. Sherlock was calm and sleepy and tasted like mint, and John was finding that this was one of his favorite Sherlocks. Their lips moved lazily, both too tired to do anything beyond this, but it was nice. He was kissing his man in 221B, their home. How could he complain?

* * *

A couple weeks later, Irene left the country for the United States.

John and Sherlock asked Mrs. Hudson to take Rosie for the night so they could celebrate.

There was a bottle of wine in the kitchen--a gift from some grateful client Sherlock couldn’t remember--so they got drunk together for the first time since John’s stag night. Tonight ended exactly how John wanted to end the stag night, however--with the two of them sweaty and naked and drunkenly giggling in bed. They had--well, if he were honest, they had just humped each other a bit until they came, but the wine loosened them up enough so there were no awkward feelings and it probably felt better than it should have. John didn’t care. It was just  _ fun  _ to spend time with Sherlock like this.

Sherlock’s head was on his chest and his long finger was tracing patterns into John’s chest hair. “D’you think we’ll be hung over again?” he asked.

“Hmm, maybe,” John said, sniffing. “Guess Greg was right. We’re lightweights.”

“Ugh, I felt awful last time,” Sherlock moaned.

“We don’t have anything on. We can sleep in.”

They fell into comfortable silence. John closed his eyes. He felt pleasantly sleepy. He really wasn’t as drunk as last time, although Sherlock seemed like he was. He was content to lie here all night. The weight of Sherlock on him was nice and the rhythmic tracing on his chest was putting him to sleep.

“John?” 

“Hm?” he opened his eyes.

Sherlock tilted his head and looked up at him with glazed over eyes. He was pink from his cheeks to his chest from sex and the wine. He blinked lethargically, his hand stilling and resting on his chest. “The past couple weeks, I’ve been thinking about some stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?”

His expression grew serious. “Well. I’m very happy with you.”

“Yeah?”

“Happier than ever.”

“Then why the frown?”

“Maybe you were right,” a troubled wrinkle formed between his eyebrows. “Maybe I wasn’t complete before.”

John wrapped his arm around his waist. “Nope, no. You were. I was being an idiot. You were and still are your own man, you’re just happier now ‘cause we love each other.”

“But I feel complete with you now,” he insisted. “I feel like this was missing all my life.”

John was touched, but Sherlock seemed perturbed. “I feel the same way, but, I dunno. I think it’s a good thing. For me, anyway.” He sighed. His head was too cloudy for this. “Maybe we’re soulmates so we couldn’t be complete without each other,” he joked, closing his eyes. But he opened them again when he felt Sherlock jolt up.

“That’s it!” His eyes were wide. “I’m my own complete half, and you’re yours. You’re your half. I’m my half but I needed yours.”

John started wheezing with laughter. “Oh my god, you’re sloshed! Sherlock Holmes, believing in soulmates?”

“It’s the only reasonable explanation,” he said hotly, glaring and pouting. “It’s logi-logi-smart.”

“You can’t even talk straight,” John rubbed his eye. “God, should’ve known the wine was a bad idea.”

“You’re making fun of me,” he crossed his arms over his chest.

“You’re gonna be humiliated tomorrow when you remember you thought the most logical reason is we’re soulmates.”

“What else could it be?” he scrunched his nose up in annoyance. “I’ve never felt this good before. I feel like I have everything. What’s it mean?”

John reached up and placed his hand on Sherlock’s arm, smiling wide. “It means you’ve been a romantic all your life and now you’re in love.”

He hummed thoughtfully, nodding. “A romantic...makes sense.”

“I wish I had a camera right now.”

“You’re still teasing.”

“I’m so in love with you.”

Sherlock’s gaze softened. He lay down and curled back up on John’s chest. He was quiet for a few minutes.

John let him think.

Sherlock gazed at him, eyes half-lidded, and propped himself up on his elbows, using John’s chest as a table. “I still think you’re my better half.”

“And you’re mine,” John told him sincerely, cupping his jaw and placing a gentle kiss on his lips. Sherlock’s elbows were digging into his skin a little, but that was all right. “But I fell for you because you’ve always been you and so sure of who you are. You’re your whole person but now your heart’s happy. That’s all. Um, does that make sense?”

“Maybe not,” Sherlock laughed lightly, “but I think understand.” His smile fell a little. “I still think...if I’d been ready and told you how I felt after Battersea…”

John shook his head and stroked his thumb over his warm, pink cheek. “Hush. We could be here all year if we started with ‘what ifs.’ We’re here now, after all that time.” His heart felt full, and he wasn’t drunk enough to blame the thickness in his throat on the alcohol. He breathed deeply, just gazing at this brilliant man on his chest. This was John’s life now, and no one was going to get in their way ever again. “I’m just really glad you love me, out of all people.”

Sherlock’s face broke out into a full toothy grin, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and the blue in his eyes twinkled. “Of course I do, John,” he murmured, voice soft and deep. “I always will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I wanted to wrap this up in one chapter, so I hope this wasn't too rushed. I didn't feel like there was much else left to say.  
> Oh, and I have a [new WIP!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17966630/chapters/42436073) It's an amnesia fic with a Twist™. Basically, John wakes up with no memory of Mary post-s4, so Sherlock takes advantage and acts like they're married instead. I hope you check it out~


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